


Conundrum

by Brighid45



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fourteenth story in the Treatment 'verse. House takes on a protege in his usual unorthodox style, and post-cancer Wilson pays a visit. NOTE: this series is AU to the canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. Humor, angst, OC romance. Now revised and updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

_May 13th_

Greg’s not really sure what wakes him from a sound sleep—maybe the cat jumped on the bed. Slowly he surfaces, blinks in the soft beams of light that stream in through the window. It takes a moment, but he realizes Roz is absent. He levers himself up on his elbow, stares at the empty space next to him. As he does so, Hellboy comes over and gives him a questioning chirp, then rubs his cheek against Greg’s hand. “Don’t even,” Greg says. “I know she fed you before she left.” He considers going back to sleep, but now he’s awake and anyway, curiosity has taken hold. With a sigh he gets up and heads to the bathroom, intent on a shower.

Half an hour later he’s just poured a cup of coffee when the phone rings. “Test results are in,” Chase says. He sounds a little deflated. “No tumor anywhere near the orbital cavity, and no sign of one anywhere else either. The patient still exhibits ptosis and opthalmoplegia.”

“Did Singh’s examination of the cranial nerves pan out?”

There’s a rustling of pages. “Fourth nerve has a little damage. It’s old, though.”

Greg thinks about it. “Take another look at all of them.”

“Okay.” Chase pauses. “I’ll be over after work to help out at the house.”

“Ass kisser. You never miss an opportunity.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’ll regret mocking me. I’m not bad with a paintbrush.” Chase’s amusement is obvious. “Who’s bringing the beer?”

“You are,” Greg says, and hangs up.

An hour later he opens the kitchen door to what was once Gibbs’s place and is now destined to become home sweet home. Music plays and someone sings along somewhere in the back, it sounds like Gene. There’s a mix of smells in the air, cleaner and fresh paint, cinnamon rolls and coffee, newly-cut grass. Greg stands on the threshold, takes it all in. As he watches Jason comes in, snags two rolls, eats half of one in a single bite, gives Greg a quick glance, then disappears into the interior once more. Greg rolls his eyes and follows the kid, but not before he grabs a roll for himself.

Sarah is in the living room with tape measure in hand. She wears a shabby tee shirt, ragged cutoffs and has a bandana tied on her head in a vain attempt to contain her curls. When he enters she looks up and her face brightens. “Hey,” she says. “Mornin’, good-lookin’.”

“Idle flattery,” he says through a mouthful of roll. “Don’t expect any in return. Nobody looks good at this insane hour. Where’s my significant other?”

“Upstairs,” Sarah says, and nods at the corner she’s just measured. “What do you think? Okay for the piano?”

Greg looks it over as he polishes off the last of the roll. It’s a good spot; interior walls, no heat vents or windows nearby, so no temperature fluctuations. “Sucks,” he says, and is rewarded with Sarah’s laugh, a music better even than the song on the player.

“Brat. Go upstairs and bug your woman, I’m busy.”

He finds Roz in what will become their bedroom. It’s a nice size, with a newly-cleaned woodstove insert in the fireplace, and two windows that overlook the back pasture. She paints the walls a pretty shade of soft, pale greeny-blue; it goes well with the maple wood trim, newly stripped free of old blackened varnish. The hardwood floors have also been redone, though at the moment they are hidden under sheets and tarps to protect them from splatters and scuff marks.

Greg stands in the doorway and watches Roz as she works. Her slender form is clad in a white tank top and boxer shorts (the shirt was his—past tense, he notes with exasperation), and she wears a baseball cap with the brim turned backwards. Her painting style is exactly what he’d expect—efficient, brisk, graceful. He admires the curve of her tight little butt, the way her breasts move under the tank top, how she bends to dip the roller in the tray.

“You here to work or you gonna stand there undressing me mentally?” she says in her cool, dark voice, and flashes him a grin. He is about to answer her when a series of images plays in his mind’s eye. He sees the two of them here, together in their big bed where they hold each other close as snow falls past the window in the soft darkness; Roz in the kitchen, in conversation with him as she cooks dinner; seated side by side on the front porch in a long summer twilight; people at their table for some stupid holiday he knows she’ll want to celebrate; curled up together on the couch as they watch tv.

He mumbles something and backs out of the room, bumps into the doorway in his haste to escape. Down the stairs, through the kitchen and out to the steps, where he halts in his headlong flight to grip the railing and draw in deep breaths of fresh air. Somehow he levers himself down to the step, rubs his thigh out of habit even though it doesn’t hurt, and tries to come to terms with the fear as it rises up inside, to constrict his lungs and make his pulse race.

After a time someone sits next to him. He knows it’s Roz; he waits for her to question his sanity. Instead she puts her hand on his back, lets it rest there. He wants to shake it off, but at the same time it feels good. “This is stupid,” he says finally.

“You look scared,” she says, but there’s no condemnation. “What’s up?”

“What the hell difference does it make?” he snaps. His hands shake. “You don’t have to fluff me.”

“I’m not. I just want to know what has you upset,” she says, calm as you please. Greg ventures a glance. She watches him, her expression one of inquiry rather than anger or disgust.

“It doesn’t matter . . .” He trails off; there’s no reason to lie to her, but he can’t admit to the cause.

“You’re feeling overwhelmed,” Roz says. “Me too, sometimes.”

They sit in silence for a while. The anxiety fades a bit but hovers, waits for a chance to seize control again. When Roz takes his hand in hers, he gives it a squeeze and holds on tight. They watch the bright morning unfold, silly with sunshine and a soft wind. Much as he wants to fight it, it feels good to have her there next to him.

“It’s an old place,” Roz says at last. “Lots of good memories here from Gibbs and his family. We’re gonna add some of our own for a few years, that’s all.”

“You’re so sure they’ll be good,” he says, as he keeps his gaze aimed into the distance.

“They have been so far,” she says. That makes him look at her. Her eyes are the green of the leaves above them, bright with equal parts love and amusement, damn her.

“Oh come on,” he scoffs, but one corner of his mouth quirks up.

“It’s about time you stopped freaking out,” his wife says. She leans in and gives him a kiss, her lips soft against his. They stay that way for a while, content to be close. Then she lets go and gets to her feet. “When you come in, grab a brush and make yourself useful. This place won’t paint itself.”

He sits there, lets the sweet day work its magic on him. When Sarah takes Roz’s spot he rolls his eyes. “I’m _fine_ ,” he growls.

“That’s good to hear,” she says.

“What, no interrogation? You’re falling down on the job.”

Sarah gives him a faint smile. “You wanna talk, talk.”

Greg stares at the bottom step. “Nothing to say.”

“Liar,” Sarah says cheerfully. “You panicked.”

“If you know, why did you ask?”

“Now why would a nice old place like this inspire fear?” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s not haunted—“

“Christ on a _crutch_ ,” he sighs. “Analysts are a pain in the fundament.”

“—and everyone working here is nice enough. I’d say you got caught up in expectations.” She tucks a curl behind her ear. “You want to make Roz happy and you’re afraid you can’t pull it off. You’re scared you’ll do the opposite, in fact.” She chuckles softly. “I suspect every married couple has felt that fear at some point or another.”

“So what are you saying—‘join the club’?”

“I’m saying stop beating yourself up for feeling something it’s normal for you to feel.” Sarah lifts her hand, brings it to rest on his arm—that familiar butterfly touch he’s come to know so well now. “Humans are good at imagining the worst. But we also have the capacity to imagine the best. Give that a try and see how it works.”

“So where’s the hazelnut ice cream?” he says after a brief silence. Sarah laughs and gives him a gentle caress.

“Everything’s a process, son,” she says. “You’ve come a long way since I first met you.”

“You think I’ve changed,” he accuses. Sarah tilts her head and considers the question.

“No,” she says. “Not changed . . . but you are learning to get out of your own way.”

“One hopeless case recognizes another.”

Her smile glimmers in the dappled sunlight. “Well _yeah_ ,” she says. The smile fades, replaced by that affection he always finds so baffling and yet so reassuring. “It’s all we have in the end, you know—the memories of what we did in this life. You’ll have plenty of good ones, and I’m glad.” She leans in and kisses his cheek, then rises and goes into the house.

The day progresses much as expected. Greg watches the people around him as they flit in and out of his vision, intent on various tasks. He waits for the invisible barrier, the glass partition he’s always lived behind, to show itself; but now that ancient remove is no longer in place. It feels strange, makes his chest tighten with apprehension even as some tiny part of him deep within sighs in quiet relief.

They have supper in the yard, seated around a couple of card tables about to collapse under the weight of the food piled on them. There is talk and laughter, and afterward cold beer and music under the trees, to play the stars into view as the sun sets. Roz sits next to him, wrapped in his jacket against the slight chill of evening, her arm draped around him, hand tucked in his pocket.

 _Imagine the best._ Greg turns that thought over in his mind throughout proceedings. He doesn’t know if that’s possible; he usually sees all outcomes and chooses the worst as possibility, simply as a self-protective measure. He knows that’s what will happen whether he likes it or not, anyway. But now . . . he glances at Roz, who talks to Gene, then moves his gaze to the back step of the house that will soon become his home. He has plenty of incentive to try something different.

“We learn by doing,” Sarah says softly. She sits on the other side of him and sips a ginger beer. He glances at her. She returns his gaze. “Give it a shot. It’s worth it.”

Eventually the day ends, and everyone parts ways. He and Roz ride in silence back to the apartment, but it’s a sweet quietness, filled up with tiredness and satisfaction.

They’re in bed with the lights out when she says “It’ll be okay, you know.” Her fingers stroke his cheek with such tenderness.

“Maybe,” he says, ever cautious.

“No,” she says, and the certainty in her voice holds a song she’ll never be able to sing in any other way. “It will be. You’ll see.”

“You can’t know that,” he objects.

“You can’t know it won’t be.” She tucks her head against the join of his neck and shoulder. “So it’s all right to say it’ll be okay.”

He has to object to this massive dose of illogic. “That makes no sense.”

“It’s better than waiting for the worst.”

He thinks about it. “Maybe,” he says again, unable to tell the lie needed to agree with her. He needn’t have said anything, though; Roz is already asleep, her breathing deep and even. He drifts off with her, content to let the soothing darkness take him in.


	2. Chapter 2

_May 18th_

“Jason, time to get up.” Sarah listened for signs of life. When none were forthcoming, she knocked on the door again. “Honey, you need to rise and shine.” Still nothing. “I’m coming in,” she said, “last chance to get up on your own.” She knew he would need more persuasion, but she always gave him a chance to make the decision himself.

When she entered the room, morning sunshine revealed a pile of bedclothes with a Jason-sized lump under them. Sarah sat in the chair by the bed; she knew from her own experience that to wake and find an adult by the bed was a sure-fire way to induce panic in a child with an abuse history. “Jay,” she said softly.

“Mmmph . . .” A baleful brown eye peeked out of the nest.

“C’mon, breakfast is getting cold.” Sarah reached for the curtain to let in some sunshine. The eye disappeared as Jason pulled the covers over his head. When he spoke his voice was muffled.

“I don’t feel good.”

“So I can put away the eggs and not bother to make cinnamon toast. Okay, your call.” By the time she reached the door Jason had begun to emerge from his cocoon. Sarah smiled and shut the door behind her.

She had his lunch and Greg’s ready and was at work on the basics for that evening’s dinner when Gene came in. He grabbed Greg’s lunch, kissed her cheek and walked out of the kitchen. Sarah watched him go, prey to a number of strong feelings. With a sigh she opened the fridge door and got out the sandwich ingredients once more as Jason shambled in, hair unbrushed and in the same tee shirt and jeans he’d worn for the last two days.

“Clean clothes and comb your hair,” she reminded him.

“This is what I wanna wear.” He went to the fridge and took out a Coke.

“Nope, and nope on Coke. Milk or juice,” Sarah said. “Tell me what you want and I’ll pour you a glass while you change.”

“I don’t like any of my other stuff.” Jason shot her a mutinous look.

“Not even that new Halo tee shirt Dad got you last week?”

Jason was back in the kitchen as Greg arrived. “Where the hell’s my lunch?” he wanted to know. Sarah cracked another egg in the measuring cup and gave it a quick whisk.

“Everything’s on the counter,” she said, and poured the eggs into the hot skillet. “You actually can make it yourself, you know. You put one slice of bread down and add lunch meat and other things. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.”

“Smartass.” Greg moved to the counter. “It’s supposed to be ready when I get here.”

“Uh oh, fallin’ down on the job. Shoot me now.” She tucked four slices of bread in the toaster and got out the cinnamon sugar and butter.

“Aunt Roz makes you lunch. Why do you need another one?” Jason wanted to know.

“Mind your own business, junior,” Greg growled.

“Settle down, both of you,” Sarah said, and whisked the scrambled eggs with a few pats of butter, set the skillet aside and took the toast out as it popped up. “Grab plates and get in line.”

Greg came to the counter and looked over the offerings. “Where’s the coffee?”

 

 

Sarah knelt on the mulch and drew in a breath at the sight of seedlings cut down; a faint trail of slime glistened in the morning sun. “ _Dammit!_ ” Half the beans were gone, and she’d used up the last of the package with this planting. She added a visit to the feed store to her to-do list, and an hour to set up some beer traps for the slugs and replace the dead seedlings.

The faint ring of her cell phone distracted her. She searched her person and realized the phone was still on the dining room table where she’d left it the night before. On a growl of irritation she got to her feet and slipped off her gloves to head into the house. By the time she arrived the call had gone to voicemail. The caller ID held a surprise: PPTH/CUDDY,L. Sarah stared at the display. She thought of Wilson and listened to the message.

“Doctor Goldman, this is Doctor Cuddy. I thought by now I’d be off the blocked-call list on your landline, but whatever. Call me back when you get this please.”

Sarah swallowed on a dry throat. _Jim . . . no, James_ , she thought. But surely Cuddy would have mentioned any worsening of his condition . . . With hands that shook a little she hit redial, only to be sent to Cuddy’s voicemail.

“Doctor Cuddy, Sarah Goldman returning your call. Is everything all right? My apologies on the blocked call, I’ll take care of that today. You can reach me at this number, thanks.” She ended the call and the phone rang. It wasn’t Cuddy.

“Mom, I forgot my math book. Could you bring it to school for me?”

 Sarah closed her eyes and counted to three. “Use one of the extras.”

“We don’t have any extras and I have an open-book test today.” Jason sounded impatient.

“Okay, I’ll be by shortly.”

“Can you make it now? The test’s in an hour and I need to study.”

Sarah stuffed her gloves into her back pocket. “All right, just this once. After this if you forget your books—“

“Thanks Mom!” And he was gone. Sarah looked down at the beans, sighed and went into the house.  

 

 

“I’m afraid it isn’t much, but it’s not bad for a small office.” Pastor Ron opened the door. “Feel free to do whatever you like with it.”

Sarah took a long look at the little room. While it wasn’t much more than a broom closet, it did have a window full of sunshine, and enough room for a desk and a couple of comfortable chairs. It was also located at the back of the church near the parking—discreet as well as efficient.

“Thanks.” She stepped inside and did a slow turn. “Would you mind if I repainted and put down a new carpet?”

“Not at all. I think we might even have an old desk in storage somewhere, let me see what I can find.” Ron beamed at her. “We’ve needed someone like you for a long time, Doctor Goldman. I’m delighted you’ve decided to open your practice here. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

“Don’t say anything you might regret,” Sarah said with a smile. “My life can be unpredictable.”

“Unpredictability opens the door to all sorts of things. We’ll take it as it comes,” Ron said. “Dot gave you a key to the back door, right?”

“Yes she did, thanks. I’m helping out at Doctor House’s for the next few days, but maybe this weekend I’ll come in and get things started.”

“Just don’t run a chainsaw during my sermon on Sunday, that’s all I ask,” Ron said, and offered her a grin before he headed off to his own office on the other side of the building. Sarah gave the room one last look and closed the door. She’d already added items to the list in her head.

 

 

“So who forgot to put fresh basil on the order to the supplier?”

Sarah tied the strings of her apron and went to the sink to wash her hands. Lou sounded tired and worse, annoyed. It was rare for him to be in a bad mood, but when it did happen it made for difficult working conditions. “My apologies. I can pick some up from the store,” she said.

“Next time double-check.” Lou tossed the paper on the counter and went out. Sarah rolled her eyes and went to the fridge. She took out the pot of sauce made the day before and set it on the stove to heat through, poked the pizza dough to make sure it had begun to rise, and went in search of the microplane grater.

She was halfway through a block of _pecorino_ when she thought to check her phone and found it turned off. With a muttered curse she looked for incoming messages.

“Doctor Goldman, Cuddy here. Good to know I’m off the no-call list. Wilson’s fine, everything’s fine, I just have a couple of questions for you. Hope to talk to you soon.”

Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and returned the call. It went to voicemail and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “Doctor Cuddy, looks like we’re playing phone tag. You’re it.” She ended the call and winced as the grater fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

“I don’t pay you to waste _pecorino_ ,” Lou bellowed from the back room. Sarah locked her phone and tucked it in her pocket.

“ _Porca miseria_ ,” she said under her breath, and took the grater to the sink for a wash. She’d just taken the broom in hand to sweep up bits of cheese when the pot of sauce gave a loud blorp and splattered tomato everywhere. Sarah stood there for a moment. She counted to five, grabbed a dishcloth from the sink and advanced on the mess.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Lou stood in the doorway. He glowered at Sarah. “Maybe I should just close for the day, it’s a disaster already.”

“Maybe you should just sit down and relax,” Sarah said. She began to wipe up the sauce. “This is not the end of the world, you know.”

Lou disappeared without comment. Sarah got the last of the spots, wadded up the cloth and made a basket into the sink. “Two points for me,” she said softly, and went to the soft drink cooler. She extracted a Coke, opened it and savored the first hit, cold, sweet and fizzy.

“I don’t pay you to stand around and drink my sodas!”

Sarah stuck her tongue out in Lou’s general direction and headed for the block of _pecorino_ to complete her chore.  

 

 

“We’re out of pole beans,” the clerk said. He eyed Sarah with suspicion. “Shoulda planted ‘em two weeks ago.”

“Slugs,” Sarah said. The clerk’s expression changed to one of incredulity.

“You didn’t put no traps out?”

“You’re sure you don’t have some extra seeds in the back room? Check for me please? It’s a guaranteed sale if you do.” Sarah gave him her best smile.

“Guess I could look.” The clerk shuffled off with obvious reluctance as Sarah’s phone began to ring. She hauled it out of her pocket and started to answer it, realized it was locked and pushed a button to unlock it. Nothing happened. She stared at the display and struggled to remember the sequence. Was it ‘back’ and ‘end’, or the other way around? She tried them both and neither worked. The call went to voicemail as she racked her brain for the knowledge. When she finally did get the right steps it was to find another message from Cuddy.

“Skunked ya.” Her chuckle made Sarah grin. _We’ll just see about that_ , she thought, and returned the call. She wasn’t surprised when it went to voicemail.

“Have to catch me first.” She hung up as the clerk came back with several packets in hand.

“You said you wanted pole beans . . . I got several kinds here.”

“I’ll take them all,” Sarah said, and got out her debit card.

“Minimum purchase on a card is ten bucks,” the clerk said. “This here’s only six.”

“Throw in some slug traps,” Sarah said.

Another suspicious look. “You can make ‘em yourself a lot cheaper with soda bottles.”

“I know that—“

“Cut off the bottoms and fill ‘em up with stale beer.” The clerk looked down at the packets. “You want ‘em _all_? They’re different kinds. You plant ‘em together, you’ll get a mess.”

Sarah clenched her jaw. “Two slug traps, a pair of cotton gloves and a hammer,” she said. “That should take the cost over ten dollars, right?”

“A hammer? What the heck do you want a hammer for if you’re plantin’ beans?”

Sarah leaned over the counter a bit. “I like to pound things with it,” she said, and made sure every word was clear and concise. The clerk’s eyes widened. He put the packets on the counter and hurried off to get the other items. Sarah straightened. “Hell’s _bells,_ ” she said under her breath, and added replanting to the list.

 

 

“Mom, we’re out of bananas!”

Sarah wiped the sweat out of her eyes and leaned on her hoe. “There’s some sliced mango in the fridge,” she called, and was surprised when her mouth watered. Her empty stomach gave a low growl as she remembered she hadn’t eaten lunch; somehow or other she’d missed it.

“I don’t like mango! Mandy eats that stuff, not me!” The indignation in Jason’s voice made her smile a little.

“Then have an apple.” She began to cover the newly replanted beans with earth.

“Yuck, they’re those old storage apples and they’re all wrinkly!”

Sarah added an afternoon of apple pie construction and sauce to her list. _Should have done it last week,_ she thought. “There’s carrots and dip, have that instead.”

“ _Mom_ —“

“Jason, you are fully capable of thinking this through for yourself, please do so.”

Silence. Then, “I don’t like hummus.”

Sarah massaged her forehead and stopped when she remembered her gloves had dirt on them. “I’m about to put you in a box and mail you off to Timbuktu.”

“Would you come in here and show me what I can have? Please?”

“Give me two seconds—“

“But I’m hungry _now!_ ”

Sarah dumped the hoe, stripped off her gloves and strode to the back door. She yanked it open, went through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Jason stood at the fridge. As she came in he turned toward her. His dark eyes widened.

“You still have your boots on,” he said. “They’re all muddy. Dad and I get into trouble when we—“ He stopped, looked her up and down. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he said in a small voice.

“No, not mad,” Sarah said. She let the edge of her irritation show but kept her voice quiet. “At the moment you’re annoying me no end, but I love you all the same, honey. Now use your deductive reasoning and find something that’s okay to eat. ‘Okay’ is fruit, vegetables and dip. It doesn’t mean you pig out on half the cookies in the jar or fill up on corn chips and Coke. Got it?”

Jason nodded. He looked less scared. “There’s dirt on your face,” he said.

“That is the least of my concerns at the moment,” Sarah said, and went back to her garden, to find the hoe had fallen atop a row of beets and crushed some of the seedlings. She stared at the small destruction, knelt and repaired the damage as best she could, then turned to cover the beans.

“Hey Mom! Does this applesauce have cinnamon in it?”

 

 

Sarah took the biscuits out of the oven and put the pan on the potholders. She surveyed the damage—burned edges, too-brown bottoms, and resisted the urge to hurl the entire contents across the room. “Dammit,” she sighed as Gene came in. He walked over to stand next to her and looked down at the biscuits.

“Burnt,” he said. “Guess you’ll have to make something else. Whatcha got in mind?”

Sarah counted to ten. When she reached the final number she took off her apron and tossed it on the counter beside the ruined biscuits. “I have no damn idea what anyone in this house is having for dinner,” she said. “Y’all can open a can or call in a pizza, whatever plays your piano. Myself, I’m headed upstairs for a long bath.” She heard her voice rise in volume and didn’t care. “That means no one pesters me, asks me ridiculous questions or states the obvious. I am taking a hot fudge sundae and a bottle of tequila with me and I am going to enjoy them in peace and quiet!”

Her cell phone took that opportunity to ring. Sarah gritted her teeth and stomped out of the kitchen as she answered. “Whoever the hell you are, you just ruined a great exit speech!”

“Glad to know that happens to other people,” Cuddy said with a chuckle. Sarah blew out a breath and sat down on the stairs.

“Does it ever. Apologies for biting your head off, Doctor Cuddy.”

“It’s Lisa. You call that biting someone’s head off? Remind me to invite you to a board meeting sometime.” Cuddy paused. “You up for a conversation or should I try later, Doctor Goldman?”

“Just Sarah’s fine. No, we’ll only end up playing tag again.” She swept a curl off her forehead. “How can I help you?”

“It’s about Wilson. He’s doing all right, all things considered. It looks like the surgery and chemo will take care of business, even he says so. You know what a big admission that is for him to make, he’s an incredible control freak.” Cuddy hesitated. “He mentioned that he’s coming up to visit House. What I’d like to know is if that’s a good idea for either of them.”

Sarah leaned against the bannister rails. She found the direct approach refreshing. “I believe so,” she said. “That’s about all I can say without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Figured as much.” Cuddy exhaled, a long slow sigh. “Before Mayfield and House’s move I would have said they’d be better off together just so they wouldn’t destroy other peoples lives. They’re conditioned to each other’s cruelties. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“Circumstances have changed, that’s true. But they’ve also known each other for over twenty years now. The friendship’s still there,” Sarah said. “They’re both resilient, even if they’re a pair of power trippers who also happen to be all boy.”

“Understatement of the century,” Cuddy said. “You should have heard the outraged squawks when I sent them the cleanup bill for coming in one night after hours and waging a paintball war.”

“Oh lord, they didn’t!” Sarah laughed and felt something deep inside loosen for the first time all day.

“They did. It was after a charity event, the annual poker game. They ruined two rented tuxes and trashed their offices. The janitorial staff nearly walked out.”

“Thanks for the warning. What a pair. I’m telling them our house is off limits.” Sarah wiped her eyes.

“You really think they’ll be all right?” Cuddy said finally.

“Yeah, I do. I’m sure they’ll fight, that’s practically a given. They’ve got things to sort out, with themselves and each other. They’ll handle it in their own way though.”

Cuddy sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” There was a muffled crash and a young child’s outraged wail. “Damn. Have to go.”

“I understand. We’ll talk again. Call the landline anytime,” Sarah said.

She walked slowly back to the kitchen to find Gene at the counter, his lean frame wrapped in her apron. He stood at the stove and stirred a saucepan full of gravy. She saw the tops had been cut off the burned biscuits and piled into a basket next to the baked chicken and the salad she’d put together earlier that day. Shame filled her at her outburst. She went to Gene and put her hand on his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Well you should be, makin’ me slave over a hot stove.” He glanced at her, his gaze both amused and concerned. “One of those days, huh?” She nodded. “Next time just say so, okay?” He took the gravy off the burner. “Get your stuff out of the freezer and go on upstairs.”

Sarah went to the fridge and opened the top compartment. A bottle of ginger beer stood next to an enormous pile of ice cream. Her mouth watered at the sight. “Where’s the Patron and the hot fudge?” she asked.

“We’re out of sauce and I’m not turning you loose on this household with straight tequila. Take it or leave it.”

It was an acceptable compromise. Sarah nodded. “I’ll take it.”

By the time she sank into a pleasant depth of steaming water in the upstairs tub, half the ice cream had melted. It still tasted good though, cold and creamy. She savored a big spoonful and set the bowl aside to take a hit of chilled ginger beer. The sweet fire lingered on her tongue. “Life is good,” she said aloud, a bit surprised but pleased by the thought.

“Hey _Mom_! I left my math book at school!”


	3. Chapter 3

_May 27th_

Greg puts the box of journals on the floor and straightens slowly. From sheer force of habit his hand strays to his right thigh, but not because he’s in pain—far from it actually. The muscle there is a little sore from extended use, but it holds up just fine; nerves ditto. He rests his fingers atop the great scar hidden under his jeans, feels the familiar, reviled ridges and gullies. There’s an open-weave gauze pad between material and skin; as the muscle grows it pushes the scar upward to rub against fabric. Already he’s dealt with a couple of good-sized sores, a circumstance that upset Roz and caused an argument.

“You know you need to take care of this,” she’d said at the end. Of course she’s right even if he can’t bring himself to admit as much to her, but she doesn’t understand how the thought of surgery scares him, a deep-down terror he’s never admitted to anyone, not even Sarah. If something were to happen, if some stupid mistake snatched away this one successful attempt at normal function . . . He flinches from the thought even as Jason appears in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you.”

It’s not exactly a welcome distraction, but it’ll do. Greg eyes the kid. He doesn’t hover or fidget; he just waits to be asked in. “What?”

“It’s about the letters you gave me.”

Ah, this should be interesting. Greg takes a seat, kicks back and folds his hands over his belly. Jason doesn’t say anything. They stare at each other for a few moments.

“What about them?” Greg says finally. He’ll concede this small victory if it wins him the battle in the end.

“I’m not sure what to do next.” There was hesitancy there, but under it a powerful curiosity allied with frustration—a mix that held promise for excellent results . . . eventually.

“So why are you coming to me? I gave those letters to you. Don’t care what happens to them.” A small lie to stoke the fire.

“I think the person who wrote them needs help.”

Greg eyes the kid. “And?” he says at last. Jason takes a few steps into the study.

“They’re love letters, sort of,” he says. “They’re from World War Two. The guy who wrote them was a pilot.” He perches on a box. His body language is guarded but not tense or apprehensive; his dark eyes hold considerable excitement.

“What theatre?” When Jason hesitates, Greg says nothing.

“I don’t know what that means,” the kid says.

“You should.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” Jason says. “That’s why I’m here.”

Now that’s well said—no false humility, no defensiveness, no baggage at all. Greg nods. “Continue.”

“He said he flew a . . . Corsair,” Jason says. “I looked it up. They were used in the Pacific—“

“—theatre,” Greg adds in. Jason pauses. He takes the information, examines it, puts it in the right place.

“Okay,” he says. “I see. ‘Theatre’ as in ‘area of operation’.”

“What else?” Greg keeps his tone brusque, but despite himself he finds he’s intrigued.

“He wasn’t allowed to say much in the letters. Some of them are blacked out in places—censored. But he did say he was making bombing runs over some Japanese islands.”

“Flyboy,” Greg says. “Got a name?”

The kid gives him a look of intense curiosity. “Flyboy—what’s that?”

“Look it up. Name.”

“John Mattheson.” Jason reels it off without hesitation. “Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, in 1921.”

“And yet you can’t find him.” Greg rolls his eyes.

“I tried a bunch of different public records. Mom let me use her Ancestry account and I found his birth certificate, but the military stuff isn’t available.” Jason looks down at his hands. “There’s an address for his home. I was thinking about sending a letter . . .”

“Thinking about it isn’t getting anything done.” Closed military records are not unusual, but in this particular case--well, let the kid find out on his own.

“Yeah, okay.” Jason hops up but doesn’t leave. “There’s something weird going on with this guy, isn’t there?” he says, and Greg hides a smile.

“You tell me,” he says, and turns his back on his protégé to open the box of journals.

 

 

“Where do you want the saucepans?” Sarah set the box on the chair and picked up her glass of iced tea to take a sip.

“Next to the oven.” Roz put a handful of wooden spoons in an oversized mug. “Greg’s being stubborn.”

Sarah wiped her forehead. “Wow, shocking news.”

“Would you talk to him? I tried to get him to listen to me but he’s scared.” Roz leaned against the counter and chugged some Coke.

“What’s this about?”

“His scar.” Roz looked away. Sarah paused.

“That’s difficult territory.” She moved the box to the floor and claimed the chair. Without thinking she brushed her fingers over the ridges on her arm.

“He’s got sores where the skin’s being rubbed off.” Roz stared down at a spatula. “It sounds like it’s no big deal, but it is.”

“If I say anything to him he’ll know you talked to me about it,” Sarah couldn’t help but point out. “He’ll see it as a breach of trust.”

“Every time it’s come up he just shuts down or picks a fight to distract me. He won’t do anything about it until he’s backed into a corner, and by then things could be worse.”

Sarah sighed. “Sis, you’re putting me in an awkward position.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Sarah couldn’t help a half-smile. “You just want someone else to deal with it for a while.” She took a saucepan out of the box. “Okay, I’ll talk with him.”

Her chance came sooner than expected. On her way through the living room to get another box Greg moved past her with an armload of rolled-up rugs. As he did so she saw spots of blood on his jeans.

“Hey,” she said, and didn’t need to pretend she was concerned. “You’re bleeding.” Greg kept going, but she saw his gaze slide toward her and then away. “Don’t act like you didn’t hear me.”

“Busy,” he growled, and stomped up the stairs. Sarah followed him. He stopped on the landing, dumped the rugs and turned to her.

“Roz said something, didn’t she?” He glared at Sarah, but there was a palpable anxiety under his words.

“Yeah, she did. But even if she hadn’t, those dime-sized spots on your jeans would make me sit up and take notice,” Sarah said. “Come on, let’s talk.” She waved her hand at the office. Greg rolled his eyes, but complied with her request. When the door was shut behind them she sat on the edge of the desk. “Show me.”

“I’m commando today.”

“So what? I’ve seen you naked. Anyway, it isn’t your package I’m worried about. Presumably you and Roz are keeping all the parts in good working order.” Sarah looked down her nose at him. “Jeans down, please.”

“ _Jesus_. Between you and my wife I’m practically guaranteed shrinkage.” But he complied, though with obvious reluctance. Sarah drew in a breath as his right thigh was revealed. The gauze pad over his scar was spotted with blood, some old, more new. After a few moments he tugged his jeans back up.

“You need surgery,” Sarah said quietly. “You know you do.”

“What I _need_ is for people to leave me the hell alone!”

“You know that won’t happen, so I suggest a compromise.” She rose from her perch to face him. Slowly she extended her scarred arm. “You do it, I’ll do it.”

Greg studied her. “You first,” he said after a brief silence.

“Nope. Your need is more urgent than mine. You first.”

“We’ll flip for it.” He dug into a pocket and drew out a quarter. “Heads I win, tails you lose.”

“Ha ha, you’re so amusing.” She held out her hand. “Gimme.”

“You expect me to trust you but you won’t do the same for me?” He shook his finger at her. “Naughty naughty, bad analyst.”

Sarah lowered her hand. “That’s—oh, whatever. Just flip the damn coin. Heads means I go first.”

Greg put the quarter in his palm and covered it with his other hand. He brought both to his mouth and blew a breath over the coin as he watched her, his gaze bright and glittering. Then he flipped it. When it fell back into his hand he slapped it down. “Moment of truth,” he said. “The crowd waits with bated breath. It all comes down to this one moment in time—“

“Shut up and show it,” Sarah said. Greg raised his brows and held out his hand. She stared at the coin. George Washington’s profile gleamed in the late morning sun.

“Okay,” she said, resigned. “I’ll get things set up. But I want you to do the same. Talk to your doctors at the clinic in Pittsburgh, see what—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg tucked the coin in his pocket. Sarah gave him a hard stare.

“I want proof that you called them,” she said. “You get three days. If you haven’t done it by then, I’ll do it myself and all bets are off. Understood?”

“They’re just sore spots,” he said.

“I know why you’re resisting this.” Sarah folded her arm against her middle. “As much as you hate them, the scars are proof that everything you went through, everything that happened to create them in the first place, really happened. Because sometimes it feels like it’s all just some nightmare in your head, doesn’t it?”

Greg didn’t answer, but when she looked at him she saw he understood.

 

 

“You just had to say something to my shrink, didn’t you?”

Roz put the platter of roast beef and vegetables on the table. “Yes, I did. You weren’t listening to me.”

“I always listen. I just didn’t care about what you had to say.” Greg forked several pieces of meat onto his plate and limped off to the living room. Roz took a slice of roast and some carrots and potatoes, debated for a moment, then followed Greg.

He was sprawled on the couch with remote in hand, the plate balanced on his good thigh. Roz stopped next to him and placed a single carrot next to the pile of beef, then sat at the opposite end of the couch.

“If I wanted vegetables I’d have taken some,” Greg said, and stuffed a large chunk of roast in his mouth. He chewed loud enough to wake the dead.

“It’s a baby carrot,” Roz said. “Just one. I’ve seen you eat them before.”

For answer he picked up the carrot and tossed it at her. It landed on her leg. “Oops.”

Roz put the carrot on her plate, stood and went into the kitchen, where she ate her dinner at the table, accompanied by the sound of the tv with the volume cranked. When she was finished she put everything away, washed the dishes, fed a delighted Hellboy, and went into the bedroom. Five a.m. would come early, and if Greg was going to do nothing but piss on her leg and call it rain she’d rather read a book and get an extra hour of sleep.

She was in the shower when the door opened and the curtain was pulled back. “So that’s it? You’re gonna give me the silent treatment because I threw a carrot at you? What a weenie.”

Roz put some shampoo in her hair. “You don’t care about what I say, so why bother to talk at all?”

“Oh come on, that’s not what I meant!”

Without warning Roz grabbed Greg’s shirt and hauled him into the shower. He spluttered and started to back out, but she pulled him closer and kissed him.

“I love you,” she said when they came up for air. “It hurts me to see you hurting. So you know I’m gonna nag you sometimes when there’s something you need to do and you’re not doing it. _Capisce_?”

Greg blinked down at her as water streamed over his head. A smile tugged at his lips. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.” She kissed the end of his nose. “You’re all wet.”

“Leak in the roof.” His lean arms brought her closer.

“Guess we better tell the landlord.”

“Don’t bother, we’re moving out in a couple of days anyway.” He kissed her again and let her go. “Finish up. I’ll meet you at the bed. Don’t be late.”

When she came in Greg’s wet clothes lay in a heap on the floor. He sat on the bed with a gauze pad, tape and ointment next to him. Roz chose the open spot on the other side and put her hand on his good thigh. He glanced at her, his gaze searching. Then he removed the old bandage. There were three raw sores on the ugly scar. He dealt with them in a quick, careless manner that told her he had plenty of experience with this problem. When the new pad was taped in place she said quietly, “I’ve already said what I have to say about this, so I won’t repeat myself. Just . . please take care of yourself, _amante_. Please.”

After a moment his hand covered hers and stayed there. “Exercise is healing,” he said finally. “I’m not really in the mood to run tonight though. Anything else we could try?”

They made love slow and easy. She was careful not to baby his right leg, though she avoided the bandage. His big hands slid up and down her back, cupped her breasts, held her hips as they both shuddered and sighed, and moved together.

“I have an agreement with Sarah,” he said later. Twilight had fallen and shadows lengthened in the quiet room. “She gets her done, I’ll do mine.”

Roz gave Hellboy’s head a loving scritch and received a lick in return. “How’d you manage that? Gene’s been hoping she’d get rid of those scars for ages now.”

Greg was silent a moment, and then he chuckled. “That little minx.” He brought her closer. “You should be delighted. That means you won’t have to look at a hideous crater in your husband’s leg.”

“I don’t care about that,” Roz said. Greg made a noise of disagreement. “I don’t! It’s the muscle underneath—“

“Yeah, you like my muscle,” he said. “Wanna see it again?” He leered at her. Roz felt a laugh bubble up inside.

“I have to get up in the morning,” she said in a repressive tone.

“I can get it up in the morning too.”

The laugh broke free. “You are _hopeless_.”

He kissed her, a series of tender little busses. “Maybe, but does it matter?” he whispered. Roz smiled in the darkness.

“Not at all,” she said, and knew it was the truth.


	4. Chapter 4

_June 4th_

“You’re working on those letters again, aren’t you?”

Jason looked up from the printout and squinted as the leaves above him tossed a patch of bright sunshine in his eyes. It was too nice a day to be inside, or so Mom had decreed; no amount of argument would change her mind, though she did make a small concession and allowed Mandy and him to take their laptops with them. Mandy lay a few feet away, stretched out on an old blanket. She wore a tank top and cut-off jeans, her thick dark hair tied back in a short ponytail. As usual her fingers flew over the keys—much more efficient than his own hunt-and-peck style, but then she was a writer and probably came out of her mother with a keyboard attached to her hands.

“Yeah.” He returned to his scrutiny of the facts he’d compiled so far—not much, but better than nothing.

“I bet you have everything worked out already.” Mandy sounded envious. Jason almost laughed.

“No.”

Mandy paused. She looked at him, her expression one of disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Just what I said,” he glanced at her and away, felt his cheeks grow warm.

“So what happened? You hit a dead end with names or addresses or something?”

“No, I found the guy, but he died during the war and his military records are sealed.” Jason looked down at the short list of facts. “I’m gonna try the Veterans Administration and see if they can help.”

“What about the other person?”

Jason lifted his head to stare at Mandy. “What other person?”

“The one he wrote the letters to, of course,” she said with some asperity. “Isn’t there a name and address on the envelopes?”

Jason’s eyes widened. How could he have missed something so simple? “What a dumbass,” he muttered, and checked the envelopes.

“Penny Moyer,” he said after he’d pieced things together from fragments. “She was living in Lansdale—where John was born,” he added.

“Maybe they grew up together,” Mandy said. She got that look on her face, the one that always told him when she imagined some lame love scene in one of her stories.

“We don’t know that for sure,” he said. “Anyway . . . thanks.”

“You would have thought of it eventually,” she said. “You think of everything sooner or later.”

The admiration in her voice made him uncomfortable. “I didn’t this time,” he muttered.

“Next time you will.” And with that she returned to her writing. Jason watched her out of the corner of his eye for a minute or two. He still couldn’t understand exactly why she liked him, though he knew why he liked her. ‘What you see is what you get’ could have been written about Mandy. She was funny, kind, honest to a fault and cursed with a big heart that took in every stray in the neighborhood, and that included him.

“I’m gonna get more tea, do you want a refill?” Mandy sat up and stretched. Jason noted with some surprise that she’d lost weight; her waist was more defined, and her arms were a bit less plump. She was still far from slender, but he liked her the way she was—already sun-browned with copper-blonde streaks in her hair, and a clear light in her eyes. He thought she was prettier than the other girls in his class who used too much makeup and wore clothing so tight he wasn’t sure how they could sit down. They looked like clowns because they tried too hard to be someone else’s idea of beautiful, and fell far short. “Hey—are you okay?”  

“I’m good,” he said, embarrassed to be caught staring. He watched her walk to the back door. _She has a nice butt._ He pulled up short at the thought, surprised by it. “It’s just Mandy,” he said aloud, though quietly enough that his voice didn’t carry. Somehow though, that statement didn’t quite ring true.  

That evening after supper, when he and Dad were settled on the couch to watch the Dodgers and the Phils battle it out, he said “Do you think Mandy’s pretty?”

Dad glanced at him. He smiled a little. “Yes, I do. You do too now, apparently.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Why didn’t I see it before?” He snuggled in next to Dad. Some of his classmates thought it was stupid to hug or cuddle with their parents, but he didn’t.

“You weren’t ready,” Dad said. He draped a long arm around Jason’s shoulders and gave him a little hug. “Now you are.”

“Weird,” Jason said, and winced when his voice cracked. Dad chuckled.

“It comes with the territory,” he said. “I remember the first girl who showed up on my radar. We were sworn enemies because she was a friend of my sister’s. And then one day she came into the kitchen with her hair up . . . I guess they’d been messing around with styles or something . . . and I took one look and everything was different.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “She just walked to the back door and—“ He stopped, aware his cheeks were warm.

“That’s one of the great things about being a man,” Dad said. “You can appreciate the beauty and elegant design of a woman’s body.” He watched the game for a few moments. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring a pretty girl. Just be respectful. You’ll hear other guys make some pretty crude comments at times. You don’t have to do that, it’s ignorant.”

Jason nodded. He’d often heard his biological father call his stepmom nasty and cruel names, a favor she’d always returned. He had no intention to talk to anyone else that way, especially Mandy. “Why does House give Roz a hard time?” he asked after a while. “He acts like a jerk around her.”

“How does Roz respond? Does she seem upset or angry?”

“No,” Jason said after he thought about it. “But it’s not respectful.”

“Are you sure?” Dad rubbed Jason’s arm, his big hand gentle. “House loves Roz, he just doesn’t like to admit it. So he teases her instead. She understands that. I think actually she kinda likes how he picks on her, most of the time anyway.”

“Why does he do that?”

“I have some ideas, but you’d have to ask him.”

Jason knew _that_ wasn’t going to happen. “He’s like that with everyone, not just Roz. It’s different with other people though.”

"Why do you think that is?" Dad asked. Jason thought about it.

"I don't know," he said finally.

"That's a good answer," Dad said. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you don't know something. It's the best place to start when you want to learn more." He smiled. "When I was a kid I'd listen to the freight train going through at night and wonder why the whistle was always the same pattern-two long, one short, one long. So I asked one of the guys workin' at the grain elevator. It's Morse code-"

"What's that?" Jason asked, intrigued.

"Why don't you look it up?"

It took a minute to find the Wikipedia entry. "It's an alphabet code," Jason said, pleased by the discovery. He loved codes of all kinds. "Two long, one short, one long is the letter Q." He paused. "Why Q?"

"It's short for 'queen'," Dad said. "When a train came into town the engineers would say 'the queen is coming through'. Back in the day, trains were a much bigger deal than they are now." He ruffled Jason's hair with a gentle hand. "And now you know something new."

Jason thought about that later, as he lay in bed and watched the soft shadows of evening deepen. It was advice House had given him as well, though in a somewhat different style. It applied to his puzzle too. Mandy had given him something more to work with, but he still knew next to nothing. Time to replace ignorance with knowledge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by my friend and fellow author anon004. Please check out her stories, they're worth your time.

_June 17th_

Sarah remembered her Mother’s Day.  They had helped House and Roz that Saturday, and then left them to their own devices to finish up on Sunday.  Sarah wasn’t sure how much painting had gotten done after that and whether or not they’d spent most of the day christening the rooms instead, but that wasn’t her business . . . although she couldn’t help but smile when she thought of them going through the place and making it their own, or, making something, at any rate.

Even though Sarah was usually the first one up and making breakfast, Gene had insisted she stay in bed.  She didn’t hear any specific conversation, just some discussion emanating from the doorway of Jason’s room downstairs, with some stomping towards the kitchen.  About twenty minutes later, Sarah was presented with a tray (really, her largest wooden cutting board, since they had never seen the need to buy a bed tray), bearing a fruit salad, toast (her own bread with butter and apple jelly they’d bought at the farmers’ market the Saturday before), and a cheese omelet. Actually it was more like scrambled eggs with cheese, seeing as how it had no shape even reminiscent of an omelet, but that was completely beside the point.  The cooks had added a few snips of dill from the potted herbs she’d just been brave enough to move outside the week before, along with a few grinds of black pepper and some of the Himalayan salt she purchased at the market (it was a brave new world where a store in the foothills of the Adirondacks would carry anything that exotic).  Jason had told her about the salt, earnestly explaining they’d added it because it was pink, and, after all, pink was the color for girls.

She hadn’t had to pretend the breakfast was good; that was a blessing in and of it itself, and all she really wanted for Mother’s Day.  Then, after her “tray” was taken away, Jason entered the room shyly, obviously hiding something behind his back.

“What is it, Jay?” Sarah had asked softly.  She could almost imagine him as a young boy, drawing a picture or molding something of out clay, hopefully presenting it to a mother too drunk or damaged herself to do anything but mock him.  She felt a pang in her heart for that thoughtlessly destroyed innocence.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Just fine, my sweet boy.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Geez, just let me give you the present, will you?”

“Sure.”

From behind his back, Jason pulled a wooden pizza paddle.  It had a bright pink ribbon tied around the handle. 

“It’s a pizza paddle,” Jason explained unnecessarily; even if Sarah had no idea what it was she would not have said so, though her life depended on it.  “You use it to remove pizza from an oven.  I made it for you in Tech.”

Sarah took the time to examine it carefully.  She wasn’t sure it was made of genuine wood; it could have been plywood for all she tell, but that hardly mattered.  The center was darker, as though it had been sanded and finished, at least with some kind of oil.  The edges were deliberately made rough and were thin, obviously to be used for sliding under dough or a baked pizza.

“It’s beautiful, Jay,” she knew she was beaming and her pride was obvious to anyone with eyes.  “Thank you so much.”

“We need a pizza stone to use it properly, but Dad said he’d buy you one.”

Sarah chuckled. “Any excuse to shove a woman back into the kitchen.”

“What?” Jason questioned.

“It’s an old, not-very-nice saying. But I’m just kidding,” she hastened to add.

“Oh.”  Jason was not used to adults mocking themselves.  His birth parents had always gone out of their way to make fun of him. He hesitated, wondering if she would do the same, and waiting for it to hit his mind and heart like so many balled up fists.  When it didn’t happen he relaxed, at least a little.  His innate trust, his feelings for Sarah and his need to explain won out over any lingering fears.

“We mostly buy pizza from Poppi Lou’s, but I know that you know how to make it, too.  I thought maybe we could make some together.”

“’I’d love to, sweet boy,” Sarah replied.  Her eyes were shining with tears.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Jason was concerned, and quite frankly embarrassed by this display of emotion on the part of his parent, just like any thirteen-year-old boy worth his salt would be. But Mom seemed to know his feelings without his needing to explain them. 

“Sorry about the tears, Jay.  You know what a weenie I am about this stuff.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Jason replied, putting just the right amount of adolescent mortification in his voice to protect his reputation.  In his secret heart, he was proud to have made something his mother obviously valued so much.

The rest of the day had gone well, too -- Sarah getting time to work in her garden, with Jason and Gene both helping her lift the heavy rocks that the frost always worked up through the soil over the winter.

 They could have eaten at Lou’s, but they did take out.  Sarah didn’t mind being there on her day off, but they wanted some alone time as a family in their home.  

They’d splurged on dinner.  Instead of their usual pizza, they had veal – _Sorrentino, Piccata_ ,  and _Spiedini_ , along with a huge _antipasto_.  Jason found he didn’t mind eating salad if he could mix in some meat and cheese.  Even the olives and the pickled cauliflower and carrots weren’t bad.  And the fresh vinaigrette made with real olive oil – his Mom called it _fruitatta_ – and balsamic vinegar and garlic was way better than any stuff from a bottle.  Dad said it was healthier, too.

Mom had liked her Mother’s Day so much that Jason worried he’d never be able to make his Dad as happy on Father’s Day.

“Tech is over,” Jason explained to Sarah when they discussed Gene’s Father’s Day present. “So I can’t make anything for him like I did for you.”

“You’re taking art, now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.  So?   You want me to draw him some lame picture, like I’m a five-year-old?”

Sarah heard the defensiveness – no, to was more like actual pain – in his voice.  She could only wonder what soul-crushing things his birth parents had done to him.  The analyst part of her wanted to know, to help him work through it. But she also realized she could no longer be objective.  She was his mother now, and she couldn’t feel anything but protectiveness toward her youngest.  That trip to Oklahoma had taught her at least one lesson – there was no indulging her emotions and pretending it was therapeutic any more. 

“If you don’t like art, you don’t have to make anything for him in art class.  Think about what else you could do.  It doesn’t have to be a thing that you give him.  You could offer to help him with something, or –“

Jason made a face.  It was plain the last thing he wanted was more chores.  She knew he didn’t mind the ones he’d been assigned – she and Gene had made sure to ask him so it wasn’t anything he hated, well, not too much, but Sarah was sure he really didn’t want to take on more.

“I could help you with Dad’s Father’s Day dinner.”

“That goes without saying, Jay.  I couldn’t make a meal fit for a king without my prince around to give me a hand.”

Jason rolled his eyes.  “Now, I’m not only a five-year-old making some dumb drawing for my Dad – I’m a five-year-old _girl_ who likes princesses. _Not_.”

“Sorry.  I get a little carried away when it comes to your Dad.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

Sarah smiled. “Yes.  Very much.”

Jason wanted to ask what it felt like – loving someone not like a parent or a friend.  Not that he’d had much experience knowing what even those things were like.  But he didn’t want to get side-tracked, and he also didn’t feel ready. 

Dad had explained that Jason’s body was starting to make some changes would work on his emotions, too.  To the extent he could, Jason wanted to step back and think about things.  He didn’t want to dive into the topic of adult emotions, at least not yet.  There was danger, and, yes, from what he’d observed with his parents, real happiness.  But, he felt like he needed to be a little older before he was ready to explore all of that.

“Then what can I give Dad for Father’s Day?” Jason asked.  He hated the frustration welling up inside, it made him feel helpless.

“Think a little, Jay,” Mom encouraged him.  “What things do you have in common that you could share?”

Suddenly, it came to him.  “Music!  We both love music!  I could download a bunch of songs for him – really old songs that remind him of when he was a kid, and some new songs that people who are young like me listen to and that he’s never heard.” 

Sarah wasn’t sure how much Gene would like an “oldies” mix, especially since Jason considered any music before 2006 to be old.  And she was also pretty sure her husband would find it unsettling to know that he was no longer listening to the same things that the young did, but the music idea was great.

“I like the concept,” Sarah said gently, trying to get Jason to think at least a little of the impact of what he said on others.  “But, do you really think your Dad wants to be reminded how . . . _not_ youthful he is?”

Jason thought for a minute, then a small smile settled on his face.  “Probably not.  How about if I just mix up all the songs I think he’ll like?”

“That’s an excellent idea.”  Sarah wanted to encourage his enthusiasm, but make sure it wasn’t too uncomfortable for Gene.  It wasn’t good for the male ego to be reminded you just became a father when you were _old_.

“Can you get me his iPod?” Jason asked.

“It will take much deception and subterfuge, but I think I can manage it.”

“Great, Mom.  Thanks!”

They lucked out in that Gene was traveling the week before Fathers’ Day, and he’d forgotten his iPod, or, at least, he hadn’t brought it with him.  That gave Jason several days to get the music downloaded.  It was also likely that when Gene got home on Friday, he’d be too busy getting caught up on what he’d missed to have the time or the inclination to look for it.

On Sunday morning Gene started his day with a request to “make love to the mother of my child.”  Sarah was moved beyond words.  They hadn’t created their boy from their DNA, or a physical act of love between them, but that hardly mattered.  They both loved him deeply and fiercely.  He was a gaping wound they could never quite heal and an utter delight they could never fully enjoy.  He was like any child and they were like any parents, and they reveled in him and, at this moment, in each other.

After basking in the afterglow and starting to doze off, they heard a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Gene asked, unable to keep some amusement out of his tone.

“ _Dad_!” Jason protested.  “Can you just send Mom out here, please?”

Sarah quickly slipped her sleep pants and top back on, while Gene groaned his disapproval.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Jason asked through the door. He sounded concerned.

“He’s fine,” Sarah responded, mostly successful in holding back her laughter. “I’ll be right out.” She and Gene indulged themselves in one lingering kiss before Sarah left the room.  Gene settled down for a quick nap as Sarah and her helper worked on brunch.

When Sarah had suggested breakfast in bed for Gene, Jason had rolled his eyes and told her to stop being such a girl.  So Gene was summoned downstairs, his male pride and dignity intact. 

The brunch consisted of an egg strata, made with crusty bread they’d bought at the bakery, with asparagus, _prosciutto_ , and _fontina_.  There were also the first locally grown strawberries of the season, with cream that Jason had whipped with the hand electric mixer and kept in the bowl, mostly. Well, sort of. He thought Mom would be mad at him for making a mess.  Instead she dipped her finger in the whipped cream and put some on the tip of his nose.   The sound of her laughter was a balm to his soul.

Not that she didn’t make him clean up.  But that was okay, too.

After the food was finished and the dishes taken care of, Jason handed Gene his present.  It wasn’t wrapped but it was tied with a bow, this one a deep blue.

“You’re giving me my own iPod back?” Gene puzzled, looking more amused than anything.

“Yeah, um .  .  .” Jason hesitated, his fear of rejection and humiliation winning for a moment.   When he looked at the anticipation on his parents faces, both of them, he felt, well, safe.   At least safe enough to tell Gene what he had done.

“I, um, downloaded a bunch of songs.  Some songs I listen to now, but mostly older stuff from when you were, um, younger and before.”

Jason could see his dad was intrigued, not upset.  That feeling of safety grew.

“How did you pick the older songs?” Dad asked.  He seemed genuinely interested.  Safer still.

“I asked people – House, Doctor Singh, Jay, Aunt Roz, Mom, even Poppi Lou.  He told me about these two singers – Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett – they’re really good!”

Gene and Sarah couldn’t stop themselves from smiling.

“When somebody loves you, it’s no good unless they love you, all the way.” Mom sang.

“Who knows where the road will lead us, only a fool can say,” Dad sang back.

“But if you’ll let me love you, it’s for sure I’m gonna love you, all the way.” Mom and Dad sang together.  The teasing tone was gone and they were looking at each other, and at him. Jason felt himself blush. 

“You guys are _so_ lame.”  He also felt completely loved at that moment, too.

“And you’re stuck with us,” Dad said, his smile widening to a grin.

“Yeah,” Jason said, and couldn’t help but smile himself, even if it did ruin his illusion of detachment.

They put the iPod in the dock and listened to it most of the afternoon.  Sarah and Gene danced when certain songs came on.  Jason pretended to be annoyed. 

That night he told his Dad he loved him after they’d read the next chapter of _The Lantern Bearers_ together.  He thought he saw Dad’s eyes get a little wet, but he couldn’t be sure . . . until he felt some drops on his forehead when Dad leaned down to kiss him goodnight.  Jason wasn’t sure how much his Dad had really liked Father’s day, but it was one of the best days he himself had ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

_June 22nd_

It’s quittin’ time, and none too soon. Greg pokes his head into the conference room, where the team sit with stacks of files. They’d finally sent the last patient in the previous batch home with a diagnosis—opsoclonus-myoclonus disorder, brought on by a viral infection two years previous. No tumor, but also no real resolution of the problem; Gene’s been called in for a consult on pain management, he’s with the patient now.

“Find any good prospects, leave ‘em on my voicemail,” Greg says. “I’ll get back to you.”

“We have at least six potential cases,” Chandler breaks in. She sounds annoyed. Chase shoots her a dry look. “Anyway, you’re not supposed to clock out until five.”

Greg studies her as if she’s a particularly repugnant species of bug. “Is that so?” he says mildly. Singh lowers his gaze to the file in front of him, but not before Greg sees his quick grin. “You and McMurphy keep track of my hours. Good to know.”

Chandler looks startled, then mulish. “No, we--I—“

Greg snaps his fingers. “I get it, you’re preventing workplace fraud. Very commendable.”

“That’s not—“

“Of course as the headliner whose paying the damn bills for this money pit and everyone who works in it, I might have a teensy little prerogative when it comes to going home early on a Friday.”

Chandler sends him a glare. She’s cornered and she knows it, but she’s too stubborn to give in. “You go home early every day.”

“If you have time to notice, you’re not working hard enough.” Greg turns his head. “McMurphy!”

Colleen’s muffled voice emanates from the kitchen. “What is it? I’m busy!”

“Twelve more clinic hours a week for Chandler!” he bellows. Chase rolls his eyes and gathers up his share of the files.

“It’s _my_ prerogative to take these home and examine them at my leisure in the relative peace and quiet of my living room, over pizza and something that isn’t beer,” he says, and stuffs the folders into his backpack. “Cheers,” and he exits the room. Chandler watches him go, open-mouthed.

“You—you—“ she splutters at Greg. “You’ll let him _do_ that?”

“How do you propose I stop him? Guess I could take him down at the door, but it seems a little dramatic.” Greg straightens. “Singh can leave too if he wants. You, on the other hand, will stay until I call back later tonight. I expect you to have three cases ready for my disapproval.”

Chandler sits there for a moment. Then she gets to her feet. “I’m going home,” she says, sweeps her files into her briefcase, grabs her purse, and marches to the doorway. Greg doesn’t move. “Get out of my way,” she says. Her voice is calm, but her eyes hold sparks of outrage.

“You didn’t use the magic word,” Greg says. He must admit he likes this long-overdue display of rebellion.

“Fucking _now_!” she snaps. Without another word he moves aside and watches her storm off to her beat-up Civic.

“Up the revolution,” he says softly. Singh shakes his head.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he says, and gathers his files in a tidy stack before tucking them into his briefcase. “See you Saturday night at the rehearsal. Who’s bringing the beer?”

“ _Duh_. You are,” Greg says.

Once everyone’s out he goes into the kitchen. McMurphy’s on the last of the cleanup. “When’s the next bunch coming in?” she asks.

“Dunno.” He goes to the cookie jar and finds it empty. “ _Hey!_ ”

“Sarah’s meeting with her plastic surgeon today,” she reminds him. “She’ll restock on the weekend. You could buy some from the bakery, you know.”

“Slacker.” He slaps the lid on the jar. “Expect company on Monday. Make yourself useful then and bake cookies.”

“I do have a life outside this place,” McMurphy says. She gives him a speculative look, her dark eyes bright with amusement. “Don’t christen too many rooms this weekend. Anticipation is half the fun, you know.”

“La la la,” he says loudly as he heads to his office to grab his backpack. “No idea what you’re talking about!”

Barbarella waits for him. He hops in, fires her up, peels out of the parking lot and down the road to freedom. It’s a nice afternoon, cool and sunny, just perfect for a leisurely cruise home. When the sun touches his face it heightens everything, brings the beautiful day into sharp, pleasurable focus. He has the whole weekend ahead of him, a rehearsal Saturday night, and his wife home early today.

It strikes him that this is actually a good feeling. There have been a few of those over the years, mainly when he lived in a fool’s paradise and had no idea what waited for him after the truth was revealed . . . but this is not that, at least he’s fairly sure it isn’t. He and Roz have had their share of ups and downs, but as far as he can tell she’s in it for the long haul, and so is he. That realization surprises him. He hadn’t really considered it, given it any true analysis . . . which tells him he’s avoided thinking about it, a rarity for him; he analyzes everything and everyone right down to the ground, no exceptions.

Why has he dodged this subject? Easy enough to parse: he doesn’t want to jinx a relationship that has everything possible going for it. The superstitious aspect of proceedings isn’t as shocking as it might be otherwise; he’s self-aware enough to know that when it comes to personal attachments, he’s as guilty as everyone else now and then when he knocks on wood and throws a pinch of salt over his shoulder. He just doesn’t let anyone know about it because it ruins his rational-thought image.

There’s more here though. The fear that usually backs such actions is absent, and that’s what startles him more than anything else. He brings the car to a halt at a deserted four-way stop and thinks about it. He still has bad dreams about the loss of Roz and the home they’ve created, which is natural enough--he’s either walked away from or been kicked out of every situation that threatened to turn into what he’s got now. And yet despite the anxiety, there’s no tight knot in his gut. What’s different this time?

 _I want this,_ he thinks. No, it can’t be that simple. Didn’t he want a home with Stacy, a work environment that didn’t rub him raw every single moment of every day, a chance to find some meaning in a life that held little or none before? Apparently not, if he’s interpreting the results of his behavior correctly. _It can’t be that simple._ He frowns at the stop sign. No, something else, some other variable has come into the equation, and he’ll be damned if he can figure out what it is.

The puzzle occupies him all the way home. It still seems a bit strange to go past Gene and Sarah’s place and into the driveway of the old farmhouse next to theirs, but when he sees Roz’s pickup parked under the basswood tree in the back yard the oddness fades, replaced by what he can only acknowledge is enjoyment. And if he’s honest, anticipation—not just because he’ll soon have some of the best sex he’s ever known, but he’ll be with someone worth his time. He just hopes the worthiness is reciprocated—and that’s something he’s never let himself care about before either, another mystery to explore at his leisure. It occurs to him then that the variable he seeks is here, hidden in the eagerness he feels. He pushes the idea away, but knows it’ll wait for him later, when he won’t have any way to avoid it. Well, better later than now. Procrastination has its uses.

On that ambivalent note he parks Barbarella next to the pickup, grabs his stuff and heads for the house. The kitchen’s open, just the screen door to keep flies at bay. He hears music from the interior. It’s cranked, so that can only mean one thing: his wife dances while she works, something she does frequently. As quietly as possible he sneaks up, eases himself inside, then sets his backpack on the floor and leans against the doorframe, arms folded.

Roz stands at the sink and washes some kind of produce. She’s wearing that lacy little black tank top he loves, and a pair of cutoffs so short they’d be a scandal if she was out in public. Her ancient CD player sits on the counter and blasts Junior Walker and the All-Stars ‘Shotgun,’ the bass cranked all the way up. But what has him riveted is the slow, sweet grind of her hips, the way her long, slender sun-browned legs pump in time to the music. She’s really into it, so much so she doesn’t even notice him. Greg can’t help but grin. He shifts away from the door and comes up behind her, puts his hands on her hips. She jumps, turns her head and flashes him a smile as he starts to move with her. Slowly he brings her body against his, buries his nose in her soft, thick hair, breathes in her familiar smell. Within the insistent thump of the song’s beat he lets her know how ready he is to take her. Her hands cover his, bring them up under her top to hold her small breasts. He gently rubs his thumbs over her nipples, feels them harden as she sighs and melts into his embrace. Her hips rotate ever so slightly in time with the song, to drive him crazy with the intermittent contact. He nips her earlobe, lets his hands slide down to tug at her shorts. She slips out of them with a grace that makes him groan as her tight little ass shimmies over his erection, and then she faces him, her fingers at work on his fly.

They make love right there at the sink, in rhythm together with each other and the music, and when her eyes widen in astonishment and she cries out, he knows a deep, almost savage satisfaction; he’s the one who brings her to the edge and lets her fall, only to catch her in his arms and spiral down into the mutual delight of afterglow. Roz hangs onto him, her touch possessive. He takes pride in that too; she wants him as much as he wants her. When her lips touch his, the taste is as sweet as the strawberries in the colander on the drainboard.

“ _Ti amo_ ,” she whispers against his mouth. Her hands caress his face, her fingers trace the line of his cheekbones, his jaw, his neck, move down to rest on his shoulders. It’s plain she doesn’t expect a reply. He nuzzles her gently. The words are right there, they tremble on his tongue . . .

“It’s all right,” she says, and gives him a smile that makes her beautiful, to him anyway. “It’s all right, _amante_.”

They have dinner on the back porch, where they sit together like a pair of brand-new lovers, and do silly things like feed each other bits of sandwich, tomato and meat and cheese, offer sips of beer and the occasional potato chip. The strawberries do make an appearance, accompanied by a bowl of chocolate dip. He makes plenty of rude comments and she laughs at him, then offers a strawberry with just a dab of chocolate on the end. Her green eyes sparkle with amusement when he nibbles the tip, his gaze on her breasts. She does a much better job of things when it’s her turn. Her tongue swirls around the fruit in a way that makes his balls ache, even though he’s still spent from prior events.

It’s later on that evening, when they lie together in bed as shadows lengthen in the charming room around them, that he says “You don’t have a problem with me not saying the words.”

Roz stretches a little and brings her foot up to caress his calf. Her toes rub him gently. “No,” she says.

“Most women require it every five minutes.”

“I’m not most women, and I trust you. Besides, you show me you love me every day. If that isn’t enough, words won’t matter anyway.” She kisses his cheek. “You don’t mind if I say it to you though, do you?”

He’s not sure if she teases him or not, so he just nods and feels her smile, slow and sweet.

“Good, because I like saying it,” she says, and snuggles in close. “So we can cross the kitchen off our list. What’s left?”

“Bathroom, porch, second and third bedrooms, barn,” he says. “And the yard, if we really want to give the Goldmans an eyeful.”

“Let’s save the yard for a full harvest moon,” she says. “Mmmm . . . plenty of rooms left to make our own. That’s nice.”

He is almost asleep when her words come back to him. He smiles just a little and brings her closer. No, she’s not most women. She’s his, just as in some indefinable way he is hers. And that’s the variable that makes all the difference.  

_‘Shotgun,’ Junior Walker and the All-Stars_


	7. Chapter 7

_June 28th_

“Knew you cheated.”

Greg wakes out of a half-doze at the whispered words, and glances at the bed. He sits at his analyst’s bedside (in a recliner stolen from the breakroom—no uncomfortable little visitor’s chair for _him_ ) in Wirth’s medical center. He keeps watch after her surgery; the scars on her arm are gone now, and Sarah is awake at long last. She is pale, and even her bright curls are subdued against the white linens, their usual spark and fire absent. But she smile just a little all the same—amazing, if you consider the surgery took forever, and she’s been out of post-op about two hours now.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, though he knows.

“Quarter,” she says, and closes her eyes. “Rigged it. But you needed me to go first. ’sokay.” And just that fast she’s asleep again.

 

 

Gene comes in shortly after rounds, just arrived back from his consult in San Francisco. It’s clear he hasn’t stopped at the house yet; he looks exhausted, and his shoulders droop a bit. But he claims a seat next to Sarah’s bed and takes her hand in his. “How did it go?” he asks Greg.

“She’ll drive us crazy for years to come,” Greg says. “Don’t need to know any more than that.”

“She was struggling with this right up to coming here,” Gene says. “She was scared.” He watches her. “She wanted to get this done as quickly as possible because of you. That’s why she pushed to have everything set up.” There is no accusation or anger in the quiet words, but Greg feels guilty all the same.

“I didn’t ask her to do that,” he snaps.

“You maneuvered her into going first—“

“Boys.” That single word from the patient shuts them both up. “Tryin’ to sleep here.”

Gene’s attention is completely on her now. “Hey, love. Are you hurting?” he asks softly.

“A little . . . not bad.” Sarah turns her head toward her husband. “Thirsty.”

“I’ll get some ice chips.” Gene gives Greg a look but says nothing, just gets up and goes down the ward to the nurses station.

“It’s okay,” Sarah says again. “He’s scared too . . . taking it out on you.”

“Shut up,” Greg says, but he reaches out and clasps her hand in his. Her slender fingers are cold. “If the pain’s bad you should say something.”

“Four,” Sarah says. Greg thinks it’s more like six, but she doesn’t want to alarm him. He nods and reaches out to adjust her meds, but she stops him. “Not yet . . . need to stay awake a little longer.”

“You’re in _pain_ ,” he says, though he knows she doesn’t need a reminder.

“In a little while I won’t be. Right now . . . want to talk to my guy.”

And she does it for a full half hour before she finally looks at Greg and nods. When she drifts off Gene leans in and kisses her. “Thank you,” he says, and Greg understands that Sarah’s husband recognizes the sacrifice she chose to make and is grateful because under that quiet exterior, he is beside himself with worry.

 

 

Greg’s well into the tenth level of Angry Birds Surf n’Turf when Roz slips into the room. She comes over to him and kisses his cheek; her lips brush soft and sweet over his skin. “I brought you some dinner,” she says. “I’ll keep watch when you’re ready to eat.” That’s it: no questions, false reassurances, inane comments. Her practical nature eases his anxiety, and makes him aware that he’s ravenous. Without a word he gets up, takes the sack from her hand, gives her a blistering kiss, and heads off to the break room.

Half an hour later, full of steak salad and strawberry cheesecake, he comes back to the room to the sound of soft laughter. Roz leans forward in the hideous little visitor’s chair, her angular features softened by her beautiful smile; she has Sarah’s hand in hers, and holds it gently. Sarah smiles too, a bit of color in her pale cheeks.

“So I charged him double,” Roz says. “He got off easy. Any other electrician who found themselves ankle-deep in hot rusty sludge would have sued the pants off the owner.” She shakes her head. “What a cheapskate. I think that water heater was the original prototype.” She sees Greg, gives Sarah’s hand a little squeeze and lets go, gets out of the chair. “Okay, I’m done pestering you. Do you need anything from home? Your boys will be by first thing in the morning.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Sarah says. “Love you sis.”

Roz smiles down at her friend. “Love you too. Get some rest. Tell Greg or the doctor if you need more meds, don’t be stupid.”

Sarah chuckles, a slight sound unlike her usual musical, infectious laugh. “Yes ma’am.” And then she’s asleep again, as she slips away between breaths. Roz puts her hand to Greg’s cheek.

“If you need anything, call me,” she whispers, and kisses him before she departs in her usual silent way, her slender form graceful as a shadow in the quiet room.

 

 

The surgeon of record comes in for a late round—a bit surprising, but then you never know with some people. “She’s doing well,” Taub says. He takes a quick look through Sarah’s chart. “Grafts and donor sites look good, nice and pink, no infection or apparent rejection so far. Pain levels are up a little but that’s not unusual with this procedure.” He sets the chart aside and takes Sarah’s pulse. It’s just plain weird to see him in this setting.

“He’s a known quantity,” Chase had said a few weeks back, in the meeting to set up the surgery. “And he’s a damn good plastic surgeon, one of the best in the region. You can pry him away from Foreman and Cuddy for a week or so if you offer something substantial in return, a consult or a lecture gig or whatever. It would be well worth it and you know it.” As he watches the little guy with the big beak check things over for the third time, Greg has to admit that Chase is right.

“I don’t know how you can stand to live here,” Taub says. “It’s so damn quiet you could hear a bear growl two miles away. I never thought of you as the rustic type.” The irony is palpable.

“Depends on what rusticating gets you,” Greg says. “I’m no longer in the clutches of Cuddy and Foreman. That’s more than enough grounds right there for fleeing the ‘burbs.”

Taub tilts his head. “You’ve got a point.” He glances at Greg’s left hand. “How’s married life?”

“Sah-weet,” Greg says. He leans back in the chair and lets his ring flash in the subdued light. “I got a babe who’s warm for my form and likes to prove it.”

Taub gives him a look from those deepset eyes—cynical, yeah, but tinged with amusement. “How much do you pay her a month?”

“Nada. She brings home the bacon and fries it up in a pan, and never ever lets me forget I’m a man,” Greg says. Taub indulges in a world-weary shrug.

“Sorry I asked.” He looks at Sarah. “She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”

“She owes me money,” Greg says. Taub shakes his head.

“Some things never change.” He reaches in, adjusts the IV just a bit, feels Sarah’s forehead, then steps back. “I’ll be in around six. Call me if there’s a problem.”

“You’re staying at the Goldman place.” Taub nods. “Keep your hands off the adopted kid’s girlfriend. You might have some luck with the nurses here, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Thank you _so_ much for the good advice,” Taub says, dry as the Sahara. He heads off, a little man in a big lab coat, and still somehow a comforting sight. Greg stretches, then presses the call button and watches one of the LPNs hurry toward him past Taub, who pauses, shoots Greg a slight smile over his shoulder, and continues on his way. When she’s close enough Greg says

“Patient needs a Coke.”

The nurse stops. She gives him an inimical look. “The patient happens to be asleep.”

“She’ll want it later.” He flaps a hand at her. “Make sure it’s cold. Off you go.”

“Asshole,” the nurse mutters, but she turns around and stalks off, shoulders squared in righteous indignation. Greg eyes her figure as she walks away. Not only will he get a cold drink out of it, his reputation as a jerk is secure.

“And some cookies!” he yells after her in a subdued shout.

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

Greg looks up from his copy of _Weekly World News_. Sarah is awake. There are tears in her sea-green eyes, glittering in the soft light. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I put you and everyone else through so much bad stuff . . .” Her native twang is more prominent, a sure sign she’s feeling deep emotion.

He sets the tabloid aside. “Be more specific.”

“Before . . . before I went home. And while I was there . . .” She draws in a shaky breath. Greg checks the monitor. Her blood pressure and heart rate are up a little, but nothing serious. “I’m so sorry.”

“Makes no never mind to me, but your hubby and kid might like seeing you grovel.”

“ _Don’t._ ” The word is sharp, tremulous. “Don’t push me away, Greg. Please.”

He sighs. “I’m not. Don’t care about what happened. Save this for your family.”

“You’re . . . family too.” She’s agitated now. “You mean so much to me—“

“Okay,” he says softly. “Sarah, okay. I’m not pushing you away, see? I’m right here.”

“Wasn’t thinking of . . . anyone but myself,” she says, and there is grief in her tired, barely-there voice, tangible proof of a burden she’s carried for far too long. “Haven’t changed at all . . .”

“Oh, stop wallowing,” he says sharply. “That’s not true and you know it.” In desperation he reaches out and takes her hand in his once more, in the vain hope to stem the tide of rampant emotionalism that appears to be headed his way. “You’re not some self-absorbed little teenage twat anymore. You’re self-sacrificing to a degree Joan of Arc would consider excessive. You do too much for too many people and still think you’re a slacker. You’re entitled to a selfish moment or two, for god’s sake! Anyway, it’s done. Stop agonizing over what you can’t change.”

She is silent for so long that he thinks maybe she’s gone back to sleep . . . but then her fingers tighten gently. “Should have been a therapist,” she says. When he looks at her there are tears, but she’s no longer in freak-out mode.

“Are you _crazed_? Don’t even wish that _gris-gris_ on me,” he growls, but keeps hold of her hand. “Shut up and go to sleep. All this angst will delay your recovery and drive me bananas in the meantime.” He peers down at her. “Wipe your nose first though, you’ve got boogers everywhere.”

She makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Tissue please,” she says, and lets go of him long enough to clean up, then reclaims his hand.

“How’s the pain?” He leans forward, ready to give her some relief if needed.

“’mokay.” She blinks, closes her eyes. “So glad you’re here, son.”

Alone in the quiet little pool of soft light from the overhead lamp, surrounded by darkness, the power of that brief statement rocks him as he watches her fall asleep once more. She really does love him, and she is glad of his presence; even after all this time he still finds her affection a bewilderment, and yet somehow he’s come to rely on it. He sits back, not knowing what to say. “Whatever,” he mutters at last, and settles in for a nap to avoid thinking about any of what just happened.

 

 

Taub has just finished his exam when Gunney and the kid show up. Jason looks scared. He stares at the IV and the dressing on Sarah’s arm, eyes wide. Gene has his hand on the boy’s shoulder; he doesn’t look like he slept much.

“Hey,” Sarah says, and offers them a wan smile. “Let Doctor Taub finish his work and then you can come over, okay?”

Taub checks her right upper thigh, and makes sure he works out of sight of family members. “Looking good,” he says with a professional smile that holds a bit of genuine emotion in it. “How are you?”

“A little dry,” Sarah says.

“Sounds like you’re ready for clear liquids and some jello a bit later.” Taub glances over at Gene and Jason. “Come on up.”

Greg takes that opportunity to head off to the breakroom, where he uses the toilet and washes up a bit, then gets a cup of coffee and rummages in the fridge for a lunch he can purloin. As he pokes through various containers, Taub comes in. He grabs a mug, pours out some coffee, adds sugar and sips. “Decent brew,” he says. “That’s a miracle in a place like this.”

“Administrator’s into quality joe,” Greg says, and chooses a roast beef sandwich, chips and apple. The apple he leaves behind, to opt instead for a Snickers bar from the vending machine. As he sits in the only recliner, Taub says

“I hear you’re next on the surgery list.”

“That’s a vicious lie,” Greg says, and takes a big bite of roast beef.

“If you don’t want to risk incision, laser would work—“ Taub stops when a nurse comes into the room. She stares at Greg, who gives her a glare while he chews.

“That’s _my_ lunch,” she snaps.

“Not anymore,” Greg says. She marches over to the coffee pot, slaps out a cup and storms off, brows lowered.

“Laser would significantly reduce the scar thickness.” Taub takes up where he left off without hesitation.

“Nope.” Greg’s looked into the options. Pressure bandages, punchgraft—the procedure Sarah had done—dermabrasion, none of them are candidates. It’ll have to be a skin graft, otherwise he’ll just face another set of procedures. Better to get it done in one.  

“You want a graft. Okay, pretty simple.”

“You’re not doing it.”

Taub gives him a long-suffering look. “If you’re worried I’ll carve my initials in your balls . . .” he says.

“Considering that even with a bad leg I can still beat the living crap out of you, that’s not a concern,” Greg says. He rips open the chips and munches a handful.

“So you trust me with your shrink but not you?” Taub sips his coffee. “Should I be hurt?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I get it. Having someone relatively anonymous poking around your thigh is preferable to someone you know who will see what that scar really looks like.” Taub leans forward. “I don’t care if it’s ugly as shit. You think I haven’t dealt with some keloids over the years that would give you nightmares?”

“You’re not exactly reassuring me,” Greg says.

“Fuck that, you don’t want reassurance. You want to vet me to make sure I can handle your monster.” Taub sets down his mug. “Let’s see it.”

Greg pauses. “Drop trou? Right here? People will talk.”

“Like you care. Anyway, I don’t live here.” Taub nods at him. “Show and tell.”

This is a side of his former fellow he’s rarely seen. “What’s with people wanting me to pull down my pants lately?” he grumbles, but he decides to take on the short one’s challenge. He stands up, undoes his fly and lowers his jeans.

It’s amusing to watch professional interest take over. Taub comes up to him, his gaze on the great scar. He doesn’t say anything, just gives it a thorough look-see. After about two minutes Greg tugs his jeans in place.

“Whoever did the incision should have their license revoked.” Taub’s voice is mild, but there’s anger in the quiet words.

“It was meatball surgery,” Greg says, to use his bio-dad’s term. “Didn’t have time to make everything pretty. Anyway, you can’t tell all that through a bandage.”

“Bullshit. Under that gauze is something that could pass for a road map of any major city you care to name.” Taub moves back to his coffee cup. “I can do it.”

“No.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Taub says with uncharacteristic firmness. “Think about it.”

Greg slurps his coffee. “Pro bono or forget it.”

“Hell no. Full fees. I got two kids to take care of, not to mention alimony.” Taub takes his mug to the sink and rinses it out. “You have insurance, they’ll do the eighty-twenty split if we code it right. Anyway, I’m worth it.”

“Says you. I’ll end up with a boob job.”

“I do know the difference between white and dark meat,” Taub says, and heads for the door. “Let me know what you decide.”

 

 

“Time to ante up.”

Greg looks at Sarah. It’s obvious she’s in more pain, but her voice is still quiet and steady. “Talked to Taub,” he says.

“You told him you didn’t want him doing the surgery.”

Damn, that little runt ratted him out. “Reynard’s gonna recommend someone.” It’s not quite a lie.

“You will not weasel out of this,” Sarah says. “I kept my side of the bargain. Your turn.”

His thighs tighten at the thought. “I need some time . . .”

“Do you really think I don’t know that you’re scared?” She sighs softly. “Just do it, Greg.”

Some of this is her pain; it pushes her to plain speech, he knows that. He’s tired too, mostly from broken sleep and waves of anxiety; he wants to argue with her, deny his promise, walk away.

“I’ll work on it,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”

She closes her eyes. “Stubborn,” she says. “Go home and get some sleep. When you come back later on I want a plan, a date and a surgeon’s name.” Her fingers brush his hand. “I’ll stay with you too.”

She will, he knows it. The thought gives him a ridiculous sense of ease. “You on one side, my wife on the other,” he says. “Shoot me now.”

She chuckles and winces. “Go home,” she says again. “Give my love to Roz.” When he gets up she says “thank you.”

Greg stands and looks down at her. “You’re welcome,” he says after a few moments, and takes his leave.


	8. Chapter 8

_July 4th_

Jason sat on the edge of the easy chair and tried to push away disappointment and an illogical sense of unease. “I’d rather stay home with you,” he said once more.

“The Fourth only comes once a year,” Mom said. She lay propped up in bed with everything she needed at hand—some iced tea in an insulated cup, a plate with a sandwich, some fruit and cookies, her ebook and laptop, iPod and most important, her meds. A fan moved cool air around the room. “There’s a lot to do at the picnic, and you and Dad can take vids of everything to bring home for me.”

“Maybe we could stay here together instead.” The thought of her left behind made his heart ache in a strange sort of way that he’d never mention aloud.

“You and Dad need to get out of the house,” Mom said. “And I need some time alone too. But if you like, we could IM each other. I’ll probably take a little nap now and then, but it would be fun to talk with you. If we do it chat-style it’ll be more private too.”

“Okay,” Jason said slowly.

“Come here.” Mom patted the spot next to her. Jason complied. The dressings on her arm were less bulky than before, and she had her thigh propped to keep pressure off the donor site. He felt no revulsion, only a kind of deep interest in the processes involved, both in surgery and healing. What upset him was her discomfort. While things were better than when she’d first come home, she was still in pain. Dad didn’t like it either, that was clear. He’d taken time off from work to stay home with Mom and care for her, a task he shared with Jason to the point where Mom had finally given up and allowed them to spoil her—at least that was how she saw it. “I’ll end up fat and lazy and it’ll be down to you two,” she’d said, and laughed.

“Thanks for wanting to stay with me,” Mom said now. “I think you’ll have a good time. Mandy and her mom will be there, and Greg and Roz and Poppi Lou.” She looked sad for a moment. “I’m gonna miss all that this year, so you and Dad will be my stand-ins.”

Jason looked down. “Okay,” he said again.

“I know you’re worried,” Mom said softly. “It means so much that you’ve both taken such good care of me. But caretakers need time off. Anyway, it’s just for a few hours, sweetheart. It’ll do you good to get out of the house for a while, you’ll see.”

“You really want us to go?”

“Yes. And I’ll expect a full report from both you and Dad when you come back.” She slipped her good arm around him and brought him close. He rested his head on her shoulder for a moment.

“I’ll vid as much of the fireworks as I can,” he said.

“Perfect,” Mom said. She gave him a gentle hug. “Dad’s in the kitchen packing things up now, why don’t you go help him?”

Dad had just put the last of the hamburger and hot dogs into the cooler when Jason came into the kitchen. He said nothing, just rested a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “We won’t stay too long, and if she needs us we’re only a few minutes away. Now how about you grab those chips and stow them in the basket? What else should we take?”

Soon enough they were on their way. As they reached the outskirts of town Jason watched his old house pass by. No one lived there now; his biological father was dead, and his stepmom was probably in jail. The place didn’t really look any worse than it had before, but he suppressed a shiver as they went by. He still remembered all too well what had gone on behind closed doors: the cold and hunger, the beatings, but worst of all the indifference and neglect. _I don’t live there anymore,_ he thought with some defiance, and pulled his mind away from the darkness.

It was close to noon by the time they arrived at the park. They’d just put Minnie Lou under the trees to stay cool when House and Roz arrived in their Chevelle. With mingled apprehension and delight Jason watched them pull in. Roz hopped out as House shut off the engine. “Nice to see you two!” she called. Jason felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Hi,” he said, and turned to help Dad lower the tailgate, took the cooler and headed to the picnic area, only to be passed by House, who carried a picnic basket and a twelve-pack of beer. The older man still limped, but his long legs made quick work of the distance between the car and the shady place under tall trees, where everyone put down their blankets and tablecloths. As Jason trailed him he saw Mandy with her mother. They set out various items from their own stash.

“We’ll bring strawberry pie,” Mandy had told him the day before. “It’s one of the few things I can have that won’t make me gain five pounds just by looking at it.” Jason’s mouth watered at the thought. Mrs. Faust was a good cook.

“Hey Jay!” Mandy stood up and came over to him. She wore sneaks, cut-off jeans and a tee shirt with an American flag on it; her dark hair was cut in a new style, a shorter length that showed off its glossy smoothness.

“You look nice,” Jason said, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut when Mandy blushed. He could feel his own cheeks warm up once more and hoped in vain for a hole to open under his feet and allow him to disappear.

“Thanks.” She looked him over. “So do you.”

Jason blinked. “I do?”

Mandy laughed. “Come say hi to Mom. She wants to know how your mother’s doing.”

“Um—let me finish bringing stuff from the car, then I’ll be over.” He made his escape, thankful to have something to do while his face went back to a normal color. He passed House on the way.

“Is that a tentpole in your pants or are you just glad to see me?” House said. Jason ducked his head and moved a little faster, sure his face was completely scarlet by now. To make matters worse, he met Roz again.

“Did you find Mandy?” she asked, and bent over to get something out of the Chevelle’s trunk. Her shorts rode up a little on her sun-browned thighs. Jason swallowed and averted his eyes, though he didn’t want to. What the heck was _wrong_ with him?

“Yeah,” he said, and winced as his voice cracked. Roz didn’t seem to notice.

“Good, we’ll set up next to them and you, okay?”

Jason mumbled something and took off for Minnie Lou’s cab. He slid into the seat on the passenger side and got out his phone. It took only a minute or two to check the IM app and find Mom online.

 _Hey,_ he typed.

 _Hey,_ m’chridhe _! Are you and Dad all set?_ He could just hear Mom’s cheerful voice in the simple words, and his apprehension eased a bit.

_Yeah almost. Can I ask you a question?_

_Of course,_ came the prompt reply _._

 _I keep looking at Mandy and Roz._ He hesitated before he sent the reply; it sounded completely stupid, but he didn’t know any other way to put it.

_Ah. It’s always tough when you first notice the opposite sex._

_How do I stop this?_ He had to know. He couldn’t go through life with a boner and a red face every time he passed by a girl, could he?

 _No stopping it I’m afraid._ He could almost see Mom’s smile. _But it’s okay to enjoy a pretty girl or woman. Talk to your Dad. He’ll give you good advice._

Jason bit his lower lip. _He said to be respectful, but House said I had a tentpole in my jeans. How can I be respectful when everyone can see how I really feel?_

_House is just giving you a rough time because he can. This happens to most boys, Jason. It’s part of growing up. You’re not weird or abnormal._

Jason relaxed a little. _Really?_

 _Really. Ask Dad. I bet he’ll tell you some interesting stories about his teenage years._ Mom ended the sentence with a smiley face. _Now go help him get the grill started before he burns down the whole park. You know how he is around charcoal._

Jason gave a snort of laughter. _Okay. Thanks Mom, love you._

_Love you too, sweetheart._

Much heartened, he headed for the grills with a stop-off on the way to talk with Mandy’s mom. It was odd to see Mrs. Faust in something other than her usual floral scrubs; she wore a nice top and jeans, her dark hair loose around her face instead of tied back or pinned up. It made Mandy’s resemblance to her even more noticeable. “Sarah’s doing all right?” Mrs. Faust said. “She came through the surgery really well. We’re so proud of her for taking this step, it was very brave.” She smiled at him. “I hear you and your Dad are taking good care of her too.”

Jason fidgeted. “She says we’re spoiling her.”

“Glad to hear it. No one deserves it more.” Mrs. Faust took a covered plate out of their basket. “Let’s get these turkey burgers started before all the grills are taken.”

They arrived in time to find Dad in front of a massive basket grill loaded with charcoal briquets. He poked at them while enormous burgers sizzled and occasionally flamed on the bars. It was a standing joke in their family that Dad was a closet pyromaniac; he loved nothing better than to play with fire. He inevitably ended up covered with soot and a layer of grease, and sometimes even burn spots on his clothes or hands. Not that he minded—nothing made Dad happier than to wear what he called ‘the griller’s badge of honor’. House mocked him endlessly for it, but was careful to get his share of excellent barbecue all the same.

“Hey, just in time!” Dad grinned at them, his enjoyment plain. “There’s plenty of room here for more burgers.”

Mrs. Faust handed them over. “Thanks,” she said, and retired to a safe distance. Jason stayed where he was; Dad might be a lunatic when it came to the art of barbecue, but he also knew what he was doing and eager to share his secrets.

“Keep a spray bottle handy,” Dad said. “If the flame-ups get too bad you can tame them, and water will help keep the meat from drying out too much.” He glanced at Jason. “Talk to Mom?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “She’s okay.”

“Good. How about a vid of me at work? It’ll make her laugh.”

He took a short vid of Dad at work on the burgers and sent it off. A minute or two later a message came back: _oh my lord,_ _is the fire dept. on standby?_ Jason snickered.

 _Yeah,_ he typed. _They’re here just for Dad._

“You two are mocking me, aren’t you?” Dad shook his head, but he grinned anyway. “No respect I tells ya, no respect at all. Fine. I’m saving the burnt hot dogs to take home.”

 _He brings home burnt weenies and I’ll feed him Spam for a week when I’m back in the kitchen,_ Mom threatened when Jason relayed this information to her. _Tell him to quit messing around and give you something good for lunch._

Dad’s threat was an empty one, of course; the burgers and hot dogs were all done to perfection. Jason stuffed himself full, along with potato salad, cole slaw, some of Roz’s excellent _antipasto,_ chips and several slices of Mrs. Faust’s strawberry pie. “I made two this year,” she said, and acknowledged Dad’s chuckle with a twinkle in her eye.

It was pleasant to drowse under the shade trees afterward. Dad chatted with Mrs. Faust; Jason lay stretched out beside Mandy, who had her laptop with her of course and typed away. “So what did you find out about your letter writer’s girlfriend?” she asked.

“Uh . . . I haven’t found out anything. Haven’t looked yet,” he said. Mandy glanced at him.

“Don’t you want to _know?_ ” she said.

“Dad and I are taking care of Mom right now,” he said, as though that were explanation enough. It wasn’t quite a lie.

“Um . . . okay,” Mandy said, and fell silent.

“We are,” Jason insisted.

“No, I understand.” Mandy hit ‘save’. She did that every other word, a habit that drove Jason nuts. There was an auto-save function built into the software, wasn’t there?

“I just—“ He stopped. Telling half-lies just didn’t feel right. “I kinda set it aside,” he said.

“So pick it back up again.” Mandy took a sip of her iced tea. “What have you found out so far?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “I found the girlfriend’s record of death, and I can’t get into John Mattheson’s military records. I do have his birth certificate. I was thinking maybe he’s got kids listed somewhere, or maybe some brothers or sisters who are still alive.”

“Okay. Why don’t I come over tomorrow? We can both look.” Mandy gave him a smile. “It would be fun.”

Jason’s idea of fun didn’t consist of a search through old records, but he’d take any help offered. “Sure,” he said, and looked up as Roz spoke behind him.

"They're choosing teams for the baseball game, are you two interested?"

Jason glanced at Mandy. She shook her head. "I can't hit a ball, can't run and can't catch," she said. "I'll just cheer for your team instead."

 

 

They were ready to choose teams by the time he and Dad showed up with House and Roz. Jason hung back, uncertain of his ability. Dad had practiced with him in the back yard and he could hit a respectable grounder, even catch the ball about half the time . . .

“You’ll be fine,” Dad said softly. “Just do your best, okay?”

Jason was second in the lineup after Dad, with House and Roz third. They had decided to continue their team effort: House would hit the ball, and Roz would run for him. Jason watched them as they stood together. Roz faced House; her hands rested on his hips as they exchanged a few words. There was a look on House’s face, intense and yet oddly tender, his bright gaze searching. He gave Roz a hesitant nod and she smiled. It changed her, made her strong features soften. Jason wondered if there was something about being a couple that did that—made people different, or brought out parts they normally kept hidden. He wasn’t sure if that was good, bad or somewhere in the middle. Maybe someday he’d find out for himself . . . Jason shied away from that idea. _Uh uh_ , he thought. _Forget it._

“Hey, you gonna stand around all day or play ball?” Dad ruffled his hair. “Come on, let’s warm up.”

Much to Jason’s surprise, Dad struck out. As he walked by Jason he just smiled and said “It happens. Better luck next time,” and went off to the side. Jason waited with trepidation for his turn at bat. To his immense surprise he managed a double, mainly because Tony Hutch, the guy at second base, bobbled the ball and had to chase it. Jason grabbed the bag and heard Dad whoop in approval; his heart expanded with delight and pride.

“Nice goin’, Jase,” Tony said with a slight smile. “Makin’ your old man proud, that’s good.”

From his place at second Jason watched House take the bat and get ready. Roz crouched at his side, ready to run. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dad with the digital recorder, as he did his best to capture everything for Mom to see later. There was a pause for the exchange of signals between pitcher and catcher; then Rick went into his windup. It was a fast ball, a scorcher that barely missed House’s elbow. The ump called it a strike; there were some loud boos and jeers from the crowd, but House didn’t acknowledge them or even seem to get mad. He simply waited for the next pitch, his lean form both tense and relaxed at the same time. All his focus was on the pitcher. _He’s really good at that,_ Jason thought. It came to him then that House practiced medicine in the same way: his full intent was the puzzle, with the patient at the center of it all. Nothing else mattered.

There was a loud crack. Jason came out of his thoughts in time to see the follow-through on House’s swing, a hard, sweeping arc that sent the ball across the field in a fiery line drive. With alacrity Jason headed for third, then home. Once he’d touched the bag he got out of the way to watch proceedings. Roz was already halfway to first base, head down. Outfielders scrambled to chase the ball, but it was already past the creek and down the side of the hill; House had truly hit it out of the park. The crowd erupted in cheers, but House paid no more attention to them than he had to the boos and catcalls earlier. He just turned and waited for Roz while she rounded third and ran to him, and laughed as she gave him a huge hug. House dropped the bat and brought his arms up to return Roz’s embrace. That intent look was back, this time suffused with a sort of bewildered happiness that held a faint edge of pain. Jason turned his head; he felt like he’d intruded on a private moment. Then it was over, and the next batter stepped to the plate.

There was another feast at sundown and then the fireworks, a spectacular display everyone enjoyed, but for once Jason barely noticed them. His thoughts returned to that look on House’s face, the power of his focus, the hunger hidden beneath it all. It called to something deep inside, that demand for knowledge that was never satisfied. _Maybe that’s what I need to do,_ he thought as brilliant displays of scarlet, gold and green exploded over his head. _Maybe that’s how I’ll get what I want._

“You’re pretty quiet. Big day?” Dad asked on the way home. Jason tipped his head back.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Have a good time at least?”

Jason considered the question. “I think so,” he said. Dad chuckled.

“Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

The bedroom was full of soft shadows when Jason came in. Mom was propped up against her pillows, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked up and smiled as he entered the room. “Hey,” she said, and held out her good arm. “Tell me about your day.”

It took a while, but he managed to get everything said—all of it, and that included his epiphany about method. When he was finished Mom didn’t say anything at first. “I’d venture to guess it was a good idea for you to go to the picnic today,” she said at last. “Do you agree?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah.”

Mom kissed the top of his head. “My clever boy,” she said, and there was real admiration in her voice.

“Why do you care about me so much?” It was a question he came back to time and again. “I’m nobody special.”

“Now there you’re wrong,” Mom said. “But I do think it’s about time you headed off to bed.” She dropped another kiss on his forehead and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Gonna send you and Dad to Gordy tomorrow, you’re both shaggy as dogs.”

“ _Mom_ . . .” It was only a token protest, however. He moved out of her embrace with reluctance, then bent down and kissed her cheek. Mom smiled up at him, and for a moment the shadow of pain left her eyes.

“Growin’ up so fast,” she said. “All right, off to bed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“What about our vids?”

“We’ll watch them tomorrow over breakfast. No stalling now, get going.”

He lay in bed for a while, and savored the pleasant tiredness caused by enjoyable labor. He felt anticipation too, impatient to try out the method House had demonstrated. _Can’t wait for Mandy to come over tomorrow,_ he thought before sleep claimed him. _We have a lot of work to do, and now I know how to do it._


	9. Chapter 9

_July 13th_

Roz pulled into the parking lot and shut off Barbarella’s engine. Greg stared out the window but didn’t reach for the door. “Might as well get this over with,” she said after a moment. Greg said nothing. “The sooner you go in, the sooner you get breakfast eventually.”

He turned his head to stare at her. “That’s the stupidest argument I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, it is,” she agreed. “It’s all I could come up with on short notice.” She wanted to reach out, touch him or hold his hand, but knew at the moment it would be a mistake. Her husband was wound tighter than a coiled spring, and just as likely to break at any opportunity.

“So we’re just gonna sit here,” he said after another silence.

“Until you’re ready,” she said quietly.

“Hope you brought something for me to piss in.”

“I don’t think we’ll be that long.” She kept her voice neutral. “Will we?”

“You don’t know,” he said finally. His voice was harsh. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. That surprised him. He looked away.

“Then let’s just consider this a mistake and go home.”

“Tell me what I don’t know. Help me understand,” she said. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Damn, I want a smoke,” he said, and sighed. “The last time anyone cut into my leg—“ He stopped. Roz said nothing. “The last time, my girlfriend—she made a choice I’d already rejected. She told my doctor to—“ He didn’t go on.

“You felt betrayed.”

“I _was_ betrayed!” He whipped his head around to glare at her. His vivid eyes glittered like ice. “So you’re saying you would have done the same thing?”

“No,” Roz said without hesitation. “I’m not saying anything of the kind. What I’m doing right now is helping in any way I can while you get this procedure done to protect your leg and your health.”

His antagonism faded. “Huh,” he said at last, with palpable skepticism. Roz tilted her head, amused despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Huh yourself, _uomo testardo_ ,” she said. Greg raised his brows.

“Stubborn man. No one’s ever said _that_ before.” He lowered his gaze. “What if—“ He hesitated. “What would you do if I said don’t bring me back if—if things go wrong?”

Roz folded her arms. “If you think I’m going to let you kick off before we get to our second wedding anniversary and that new dinnerware set you’re buying me, you can think again.”

“You scheming minx,” Greg said. It was clear he tried hard not to be amused. “Married me for my money.”

“Among other things.” Roz slid her gaze to his, then away. “Mostly it was the loot, though. Just so you know.”

Greg looked down his nose at her. “Making me laugh won’t get me in that pre-op bed any faster.”

“All’s fair. And it’ll take as long as it takes,” Roz said.

“You’re presuming it’ll happen eventually.”

“Yes.” She did reach out this time; her hand came to rest on his good thigh. The long muscles tensed under her touch, then relaxed slowly.

“I notice you’re not feeling up the scar,” Greg said. “Too icky, huh?”

“I’ve never cared about that except as it affects your health,” she said quietly.

“You’re just saying that because you have scars of your own and you don’t want me freaking out over them.”

She gave him a light smack. “You know you don’t mean a single word. Stop trying to get me mad.”

Greg pretended to cower. “Heeeeeeeeelp! I’m being mugged!”

Roz rolled her eyes. “How old are you again?”

“Old enough to know I don’t want someone cutting into my leg.”

She sighed and stuck the key into the ignition. “Okay.”

Greg straightened. “That’s it,” he said after a short silence.

“If you aren’t up for doing this, fine. It just means we’ll have to book a round trip to Pittsburgh when the sores get deep enough to mess with the muscle, that’s all.”

“You don’t know anything about anatomy,” Greg said, his scorn obvious.

“But you do. And you know you can’t let things get worse.” She kept her hand on the key. “Your choice. We deal with this now, or we deal with it later. Just remember later will probably be a much bigger problem.”

“ _Jesus._ ” Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. Roz said nothing; he would not welcome her acknowledgment of his fear. She just waited. “Okay, great. Push me into letting my former fellow tear strips off me. Literally.”

Without comment she withdrew the key and opened the door. After a long hesitation Greg did the same. He took his duffel from the back seat and faced her. In the morning sunlight he looked drawn, his age apparent. Now Roz went to him and took his right hand in hers.

“I’ll be there with you,” she said.

“I wasn’t there for you when you got hurt,” he said roughly.

“I don’t care about equal exchanges.”

“Good thing for me.” His lean fingers tightened around hers. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

He submitted with ill grace to the routine of admission. Once they were in the pre-op area, Roz drew the curtain and helped him undress.

“I hate those goddamn things,” Greg grumbled as she shook out the hospital gown and offered it to him.

“Oh, I don’t know. I kinda like that back view,” Roz said. He rolled his eyes but put on the gown; she tied the tapes and gave his ass a soft pinch. To her mild surprise he turned and took her in his arms, bent his head and kissed her. He trembled just a little.

“I’ll be right here,” she said when the kiss ended. Greg nuzzled her, his nose buried in her hair.

“Stacy was there too,” he said.

“I’m not Stacy.” She held him close. “You and I sat down with Doctor Taub and discussed options. Hacking off your leg was not one of them. If anyone tries it I’ll drag them out into the parking lot and beat them to a pulp. Then I’ll _really_ get serious on their ass. Okay?”

He didn’t respond at first. Then he nodded once. “’kay.” His big hands caressed her lower back, moved down to cup her cheeks. “You’d have made an excellent hit man. The money’s better too.”

“Good to know just in case the electrician gig falls through.” The sound of gurney wheels and voices outside the curtain announced the arrival of the pre-op team. Greg drew in an unsteady breath.

“You . . . you really will be here--you won’t let them do something stupid,” he whispered—not quite a question or a confirmation, but a bit of both.

“I’ll be here, and no one’s pulling any dumb shit while I’m around,” Roz said softly. “Doctor Taub’s going to check in with me every half hour, and I have one of the nurses bribed to give me inside information just in case anything hinky goes on.”

He snorted softly, but he relaxed somewhat. “You have a devious mind. I like it.”

She stayed with him as they moved to the pre-op area; she watched as he was sedated and the monitor leads put on, the IV line set up. Gradually his fear eased, though it didn’t go away completely. Roz kept hold of his hand, felt his tight, hot grip slowly loosen. Just before they took him into the OR he looked up at her. His vivid gaze, dimmed by sedation, still held everything he couldn’t bring himself to say. Roz leaned down and brushed a kiss over his lips.

“You behave yourself,” she said. “No copping feels off the nurses, because I’ll know and boy will you pay later, buster.”

A smile ghosted over his face. “Wet blanket,” he whispered.

“I love you too, _amante_. See you in a little while.” She kissed him again, then stood up as the team came in. When they took him away she walked with them to the OR doors, gave Greg’s hand a final squeeze, then let go and went to the waiting room to begin the vigil.

Roz did her best to find ways to pass the time. She’d already rescheduled appointments, so she called clients and made notes on the problems involved; urgent cases she referred back to Kyle, who would farm them out to someone else for the time being. As she updated the schedule she thought again about a business of her own. Working for someone else had its advantages, but Kyle’s continual complaints and nasty barbs about her refusal to put in eighty hours a week—well okay, more like one hundred—was way past old. She had a life with Greg now, and to work herself to death and push her income into a higher tax bracket no longer held much appeal. Still, a business would entail a lot of paperwork she didn’t have to bother with now . . . Roz sat back with a sigh and refrained from looking at her watch. It had only been an hour or so, and a check every two minutes would just make time go slower.

She turned back to her schedule and sipped her coffee, then looked up as someone came into the waiting room. It was Sarah. She sat in a wheelchair and used her good arm to propel her forward. “Hey sis. Gene and I thought we’d sit with you while you’re waiting,” she said with a smile. Roz set her work aside and came forward to offer a careful hug.

“Thanks, it’s good to see you up and around.”

“Gene’s getting some coffee and a cup of tea for me.” Sarah maneuvered the chair next to Roz’s seat and locked the brake.

“Where’s Jason?”

“Staying with Mandy at her place. Ann’s going to take them to a movie and then dinner later on.” Sarah sat back with a little sigh. “Feels good to get out of the house, I was coming down with cabin fever.” She gave Roz a steady look. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. Trying to stay busy.” Roz closed her schedule book. “Worried.”

“That’s understandable. How much of a hard time did he give you this morning?”

Roz smiled a little. “Some, but he’s been a lot worse. I think he just wanted me to coax him into taking the last step because he couldn’t do it by himself.”

“He has his reasons for that,” Sarah said.

“He mentioned something about his girlfriend Stacy betraying him, but he didn’t go into details.” Roz tipped her head back. “I’m not fishing. When he’s ready he’ll tell me.”

Sarah put her hand over Roz’s for a moment. “The fact that he wants you to keep watch over him says a lot.”

Roz smiled a little. So how are you doing?” she asked. “You look good.”

“I’m cranky, everything itches and staying at home doing nothing is driving me crazy,” Sarah said. “I’ve played my mandolin till my fingers are sore and I’ve caught up on my book list, I’ve surfed so much internet my eyes are fried, and I’m afraid Gene is rearranging my kitchen cabinets while I’m not looking. And Jason’s taking care of the garden, which is a bit nerve-wracking since he’s never really done that before.”

Roz chuckled. “You’re such a control freak. Your men won’t trash the place. And I happen to know for a fact Gene’s been trying to get you out to dinner and a movie for two days now and you won’t go.”

Sarah looked surprised. She turned her head as Gene came into the room with cups in both hands. “You’ve been tellin’ tales on me,” she accused. Gene gave her her tea.

“You need a night out,” he said in a mild tone. “I thought if Roz could convince you, you might go.”

“Dirty tactics,” Sarah said, but it was plain her heart wasn’t in it. She sat back in the chair with a soft sigh. “A night out would be nice . . .”

“But?” Gene sat next to her.

“It’s such a damn production getting anywhere. You have to get the chair stowed and help me like I’m an old woman, and then do it all over again when we get where we’re going . . .” Sarah sipped her tea.

“You know if you’re uncomfortable we can adjust your pain meds,” Gene said quietly.

“It’s not that,” Sarah said. “I just don’t—“ She stopped.

“You don’t like the attention you get in public,” Roz said. Sarah hesitated. Then she nodded.

“Yeah.”

“So borrow our place tomorrow night,” Roz said. “I’ll be here with Greg. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, and a big comfy couch in the living room. And the Heebster would love the company.”

Sarah looked at Roz. “What kind of movies do you have on tap?” She did her best to look serious, but a fugitive twinkle in her eyes gave her away.

“We just got two letterbox Blu-Ray copies of _Ocean’s Eleven_ , both the original and the Clooney versions,” Roz said. “There’s a bottle of Barolo in the pantry, it’s fantastic with steak and salad. Poppi sent home a cheesecake two days ago and there’s still half left after Greg had his way with it. I’ll never eat the rest, so help yourselves.” She almost looked at her watch and pulled her glance away.

“Thank you, sis.” Sarah put a gentle hand on Roz’s arm. “We’ll take you up on that. We’ll bring some green beans from the garden to share, Jason picked the first crop this morning.” The edge of excitement and anxiety in the older woman’s voice made Roz smile a little.

“I took _pictures_ ,” Gene said in a long-suffering tone. “I _proved_ the kid’s not trampling your babies underfoot, and he’s not pulling up vegetables and watering quack grass instead. Stop being such a worrywart, woman.”

They settled into desultory chat after that, mostly bits of gossip and everyday details. Roz found it soothing; she allowed the ordinariness of the talk to pull her away from what went on in the OR. After a while she took out her schedule again. Sarah looked it over with her.

“When are you going to tell Kyle to get stuffed?” she wanted to know. “He works you like a slave and pays you crap.”

“I get decent benefits,” Roz pointed out. “One of which is that he has to deal with payroll and paperwork.”

“You could handle all of that with one hand tied behind your back,” Sarah said. “You know most of your clients are loyal because you do good work, not because of Kyle’s charming personality.”

Roz chuckled. “Good point.” She made a note and paused. “You really think . . . ?”

“I do,” Sarah said. “I also think you should offer your services as math tutor to the school system.”

That took her by surprise. “Me? A tutor?”

“Of course. Look at how much you’ve helped Mandy. Ann was saying the other day her daughter’s grades are much better. That’s down to you giving a good student her best chance to improve.” Sarah put her hand on Roz’s shoulder for a moment. “You’re a natural teacher. You have plenty of patience, a good sense of humor, and you know your subject inside and out.”

Roz tried to picture herself as a teacher and had to smile. “You sure you’re talking about me?”

Sarah tilted her head just a bit. “Who else? Just think about it.”

Roz did that as she chipped away at her appointments, took a brief nap, used the bathroom and washed her face, got another cup of coffee. If she decided to start a business she could set her own hours, and that meant she’d be able to work with the school—maybe come in one day a week or a couple of afternoons, whatever would fit . . . She felt a tingle of excitement. Her work with Mandy had been enjoyable. Of course not all her students would be so easy, but the challenge would be interesting as well.

At noon Gene went out and came back with lunch. Roz wasn’t really hungry, but knew she probably wouldn’t get much of a chance to eat later. She unwrapped one of Poppi’s fresh basil and mozzarella _paninis_ , took a bag of chips and did her best to eat.

“We should be hearing something soon,” Gene said. Less than five minutes later Doctor Taub came into the waiting room. He looked tired but satisfied. Roz felt a tightness in her heart loosen a little.

“Everything went well,” Taub said with a slight smile. “He’s in post-op now, it’ll take him a while to wake up but you can sit with him if you like.”

Roz wasn’t quite sure what to expect when she entered the post-op area, but the sight that greeted her was reassuringly normal, even with the monitors and IV and leads. Greg lay quiet in the bed, his face turned toward her. She sat in the chair next to his bed and took his hand in hers. His lean fingers held strength even slack in unconsciousness; she rubbed the familiar calluses and took comfort in his touch.

“I took the skin graft from the same leg,” Taub had told her on the way to post-op. “That way he’ll have a bit more mobility.”

“And he won’t freak out at having dressings on both legs,” Roz said dryly. Taub chuckled.

“That too.” He glanced at her. “You know he’ll be a bad patient. Most doctors usually are.”

She nodded. “We’ll manage.”

“I’d say better you than me, but I actually like you so I won’t.” Taub smiled at her soft laugh. “I’ll be here for the next week or so to make sure everything progresses normally, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. He’ll be up driving everyone crazy in no time.”

As Roz sat in the dimly-lit room and watched her husband sleep, she thought of the days ahead. He would test her in every way, she knew that. Undoubtedly she’d get the sharp edge of his tongue as anxiety and pain pushed away his usual minimal restraint. But she also knew he needed reassurance and a steady presence, and someone to offer acceptance when he doubted his decisions and struggled with fear. That she could do.

Fifteen minutes into her vigil she felt his fingers twitch in her clasp. “Greg,” she said softly. “Time to wake up, _amante_.” She pressed the call button by his head. “Wake up, come on, you can do it . . .”

By the time the nurse and Taub had arrived Greg was able to open his eyes. He focused on Roz with difficulty, but she saw fear in the blue depths. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s all right.”

“Everything’s fine,” Taub said, as he checked Greg’s breathing. “No problems whatsoever, and before you say anything I double-counted the sponges, needles and hardware. They’re all outside on the instrument tray, not inside you.” He tucked his stethoscope in his pocket. “If you can wake up a little more I’ll let you see.”

It took him some time, but soon enough he stared down at the place where his scar had been. Roz kept hold of his hand.

“Six months and you’re gonna look just like any other fifty-something has-been athlete,” Taub said. Greg made a noise that could have been a laugh and tipped his head back, closed his eyes. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave. I’ll be back later tonight to torment you again. Paybacks are hell.” Taub nodded at Roz and left them alone. Slowly Greg turned his head to face her.

“Are you hurting?” she asked, anxious that he be as comfortable as possible.

“’mokay.” His fingers tightened. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said with a smile. He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed as he slid into sleep, but his grip remained firm. Roz settled into the chair with a small sigh. Her back would ache in another hour or so.

She’d just thought of the other half of her sandwich and her iced tea when Gene and Sarah came in. Sarah had a tray balanced on the arms of her wheelchair with Roz’s lunch on it.

“He’ll be in his own bed in another half hour. We brought in some easy chairs for you and visitors,” Gene said softly. “You need anything else?”

Roz shook her head, unable to speak. Gene nodded and took off soft-footed down the ward. Sarah pulled up next to her and handed over the sandwich. “We’ll bring in some dinner later too, and give you a chance to get some rest. I can spell you for the night hours.” She looked Greg over. “A little pale but all right,” she said after a moment. “He’ll give us hell once he’s recovered and his pain’s settled down.”

“I know.” Roz leaned in and kissed Sarah’s cheek. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Sarah smiled at her. “Eat your lunch.”

The transfer to the ward went smoothly. Greg woke up as Roz drank the last of her iced tea. He said nothing, but the longing in his gaze told her he was thirsty. She offered him some ice chips and stroked his cheek.

“Don’ have t’stay,” he said at one point.

“Oh, shut up.” She kissed his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Floaty.” He sighed. “’sthis real?”

“Yes, it’s real. Rest now.”

He pushed his face against her hand like a cat. “kay. Love you.”

Roz paused, startled. Slowly she bent down and brushed a kiss over his lips. They were warm, a bit chapped. “ _Ti amo, amante_ ,” she whispered, “ _ti amo cosi tanto_ ,” and he smiled just a little before sleep claimed him.

 

 _Ti amo, amante . . . ti amo cosi tanto_ —I love you, love . . . I love you so much


	10. Chapter 10

_July 14th_

_(Sarah stands at the gate to a yard she knows well, having visited it twice now. It had progressed from sun-burned barren lot to a shady haven the last time she saw it; now it’s a garden, the lush hedges bordered by flowers of every kind, from zinnias and marigolds to rare perennials. Long shadows fall across the thick grass of the lawn; twilight has lowered its deep blue banner, and the first stars have begun to show._

_Greg sits in a wheelchair under the big tree. A soft evening breeze laden with the fragrance of growing things rustles the leaves above his head, but he seems oblivious to the beauty around him. He’s older than the last time she saw him here. If she had to hazard a guess, he’s in his mid-thirties. He’s still lean and rangy, his face without the lines caused by the passage of time that he bears in the real world, but there’s a brooding, sullen pain she hasn’t seen in a long while. As she approaches he lifts his gaze to hers. Vivid blue eyes give her a contemptuous glance before he looks away in dismissal. His hand moves to his right thigh, covers it. Now she sees he wears a hospital gown. There are discolored splotches over the area of his wound._

_“What do you want?” His voice is harsh, freighted with barely-contained fury. Sarah stops a few feet away._

_“Came to see you,” she says._

_“Came to see the freak show, more like,” he sneers. “Fuck off!”_

_“You’re not a freak.”_

_“Everyone’s a freak. It’s just easier to see with me right now.” He tips his head back a bit and glares at her. “You might be an exception though.” He grabs the cloth of his gown and yanks it back to reveal his leg. “Take a good look. That’s what you’re here for anyway.”_

_The scar is new and raw, red and swollen, the gully of missing muscle even more obvious; the sutures still hold together pale, vulnerable flesh carved into hideous ridges. Sarah feels a huge lump of grief constrict her throat. “I’m so sorry,” she says softly._

_“Yeah, that’s a huge comfort.” Greg pulls the gown back in place. “Get out.”_

_“I have scars too,” she says, and extends her arm to show him the ragged cuts that are still there in her memory, despite the new skin graft._

_“What part of get out don’t you understand?” he snaps. “I don’t give a fuck about what’s happened to you!”_

_“Listen to me,” she says. “The hole in your leg is a damn tragedy, and that’s no lie. But you can still play music. You can work. You can find someone to love—“_

_“Shut up! You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about!” He slams the arm of the chair with his fist. “You think someone’s gonna hire a cripple for anything beyond a quota fulfillment? That any woman will want this mess within a fifty-foot radius? As for music—“ His voice cracks on the last word; he’s about two seconds from a total breakdown. “I can’t even sit at the piano without ending up in agony after five minutes!”_

_“Greg . . .” She comes closer, takes a breath and says what has to be said. “This isn’t your reality any longer.”_

_There is a long silence. When she finally looks it is to find he stares at the ground, head bowed._

_“It will always be what’s real.” She can barely hear him._

_“That’s your fear and years of pain talking. You think I don’t understand that?” She holds up her hand for him to see. Her wedding ring glitters in the dying light. “I found a man who loves me, scars and all. I found work I enjoy. I make music every day, even when it hurts. That wasn’t what was real for me when I cut my arm to hell, but I changed. You have too.” She hesitates. “We’re good friends because of all this, you know.”_

_He still won’t look at her. “Bullshit.”_

_“No it isn’t.” She dares to take a final step to stand by the wheelchair. “It’s the truth. You can leave this behind and move on, Greg. It’s all right. Come with me. It’s time to go home now.”_

_“It’s all I’ve got, this place.” It’s a rough whisper. “I don’t have anywhere else.”_

_“Yes you do. Let me show you.”_

_She stands behind his chair, and then they are moving toward the gate. He’s scared, she knows he is, but he doesn’t try to stop her. Soon enough they are poised on the threshold. Beyond the yard there’s a party going on; people sit in a circle, they hold musical instruments and they talk and laugh as they tune together. “We can join them,” she says softly. She sees Gene, and Roz sits next to him. “They’re waiting for us.”_

_“I can’t.” The anguish in his voice breaks her heart. “I can’t.” _

_“You already have.” Sarah puts her hand on his shoulder for a moment. “’Shingle by shingle,’” she sings softly, “’I’m patchin’ up the roof, row by row I’m bringin’ in the crop . . .”_

_He’s listening, she can feel him intent on every note, every word._

_“’Love makes a change and I’m livin’ the proof, new water’s in the well and I’m grateful for every drop.’” She finishes the song and gives him a little caress. “Everything you want and need is there for you, son. Just move forward.”_

_For a long, long time he sits there, watches the people in the circle. She can see just enough of his face to catch the desperate longing and also the terror that holds him back. And then finally, he reaches up and grabs her hand._

_“You’ll . . . you’ll come with me.”_

_“Always,” she says without hesitation. His fingers give hers a squeeze—the only way he can acknowledge her offer and thank her, she knows. Then he lets go and grips the wheels of his chair, takes a breath, and pushes over the threshold . . .)_

“Hey.”

Sarah woke with a start. She glanced at Greg; he was awake, his gaze intent, searching.

“Hey,” she said, and yawned. “How are you feeling?”

“You were dreaming,” he said. Sarah put her hand over his, felt his fingers curl around hers in a firm clasp, and smiled.

“Yes, I was,” she said. “Are you thirsty? Doctor Taub said you can have clear liquids.”

“Only if that means coffee and doughnuts,” Greg said. Sarah rolled her eyes.

“You’ll have ginger ale and crackers for now and be happy you’re getting that much, you ingrate.” She gently rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “Anything else you need?”

A month in Fiji with nothing on my mind but getting my wife naked and acquiring a tan.” He closed his eyes. “Wish this was over.”

“You’ll be home in a couple of days,” Sarah said. “I think you’ll heal fast.”

“You’re gonna stay here the whole time.” It was said in a sarcastic tone, but she heard the echo of anxiety behind the words.

“Just nights,” she said. “Sometimes it’s kinda nice to wake up and find someone there.”

Greg said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers for a moment as he looked away.

He’d just finished his second cracker when Roz came into the ward. Sarah moved out of the way, delighted by the way Greg’s face brightened at the sight of his wife. Without a word she gathered up her things and left them alone.

“I’ll be there in five,” Gene said when she called him. “Jason wants us to stop by the bakery on the way home, are you up for that?”

“Sure,” Sarah said. She thought of a cherry danish and her mouth watered. “Throw in a cream cake for dinner tonight, we’ll have it with the last of the fresh strawberries.”

Minivan entry and exit was still a procedure she hated, but it was less onerous than it had been even a few days ago. “Taub says you’ll be free of the chair by the end of next week,” Gene said as he pushed the front door open. “Your first PT session is on Wednesday. You’ll be out in the garden again in no time.”

“Actually I think we’ve left it for good,” Sarah murmured.

Gene paused as he eased her over the threshold. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just . . . thinking out loud.” She saw Jason get up from the couch and hurry toward her; she lifted her good arm for his careful embrace, glad to be home.

_‘Shingle By Shingle,’ Eric Bibb_


	11. Chapter 11

_July 18th_

Greg sips his iced tea and tries to focus on the game. It’s good to be home; the relief of freedom from the hospital and a return to familiar surroundings hasn’t worn off yet even after two days. Though it’s raining and muggy as a consequence, he prefers humid fresh air to the cold, stale recycled stuff he breathed for several days. Truth be told, he’s as comfortable as it’s possible to be given the circumstances; ensconced on the couch in the living room, with books, journals, tv remote and PlayStation controls at hand, as well as his iPod, pain meds and a little cooler packed with sandwiches, cookies and more to drink. There’s a chamber pot tucked under the coffee table, and the cat keeps him company now and then. He’s spoiled rotten, he fully admits it. This is the utter lap of luxury . . . and he is bored, bored, _bored_. It doesn’t even help that his team’s found a new case—they’ve held a ddx session via Skype and while it got things started, it did nothing for his ability to pull details together. He has to be there to watch the reactions of his fellows, gather clues from the way they offer information . . .

With a sigh he pulls his attention back to the Phillies and the mess they’ve made of the seventh inning, just as the kitchen door opens. The jingle of keys and consequent thump of a toolbox being stowed by the door tells him it’s Roz even before she comes into the living room. A few seconds later she shows up, still in her jumpsuit of course. She looks hot and tired, but she smiles and bends down to give him a kiss. It’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day so far.

“Home early,” he says eventually.

“I thought you’d like some company,” she says, and perches one cheek on top of the couch. “Looks like Sarah’s been here and brought you some goodies.”

“Gene dropped them off this morning along with some kickass painkillers.” He stretches a little and winces as his leg gives him a mild warning twinge.

“When are your meds due?”

“I can keep track of them myself,” he snaps. For answer Roz kisses his bald spot.

“I know you can, Doctor Crankypants,” she says with far too much cheerfulness.

“Takes one to know one. You smell like someone’s attic.”

“Well, that makes sense, because I was in someone’s attic for most of the morning.” She strokes his cheek and gets to her feet. “Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up and I’ll come watch the game with you, okay?”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, but he watches her head off to the bedroom. Under the worn blue cotton it’s still possible to see her hips swing just that little bit, a sight of which he never tires.

Something else he likes about his wife: when she says ten minutes, she means it. Almost to the second she emerges clad in a white tank top and a pair of pastel-colored cotton shorts. The light colors glow against her sun-browned skin; her thick cap of dark hair gleams from the brushing she undoubtedly gave it. She pulls an easy chair over next to the couch, and when she bends forward he gets an eyeful of slender thighs and the delicate curve of her small but delectable bum as the worn fabric rides up. She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of iced tea and lemon wedges, and several sugar cookies on a little plate. These dainties she sets on the coffee table with a coaster under the glass to prevent rings on the polished wood, and settles her lean body into the chair with a quiet sigh.

Well, that won’t do, not at all. Sexual frustration has made its presence known—it’s been nearly two weeks and the lack of sugar is definitely felt, at least on his side of things. While he’s still incredibly sore and tires easily, he wants his woman, and he wants her now. So to get things started he reaches out and steals a cookie from the little plate.

“Hey,” Roz says, but he hears the laugh in her voice. “Leave my treats alone.”

“Never in this lifetime,” he assures her, and takes a big bite while his gaze rests on her breasts. Roz rolls her eyes.

“I just got home,” she says. “Anyway, you’re over there and I’m over here.”

For answer he pats the spot by his hip; there’s plenty of room for her. Roz looks doubtful.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says.

“Let me worry about that,” he says with some impatience.

After a moment she gets up and lights on the couch like a virgin on her first date, her slender back ramrod straight with hands clasped in her lap. “Here I am,” she says in a prim little voice. Greg snorts and wraps his arm around her, eases her back against him. Then he sees her grin and gives her a light smack.

“Brat.”

She relaxes into his embrace and turns her head to look at him. “Look who’s talking,” she says. Her eyes are moss-green; their soft lights dance with amusement and, to his delight, lust. So she’s hungry for more than cookies too . . . He leans in and kisses her, strokes her tongue with his. It feels so good to have her in his arms; her slight curves are warm and she smells of her favorite flower-lavender soap and herself, a stimulating combination. Her hands slide up to his chest. He feels her mutilated little finger against his pectoral, a reminder that she understands pain and recovery too.

When the kiss ends she brushes her lips over his. “If we’re gonna make out, let’s do this right,” she says, and gets up to close the curtains against the dark, rainy afternoon and turn on the small lamp atop the end table. When she brings over her old CD player he sits up a little, intrigued. She slips in a disc and adjusts the volume, then resumes her spot on the couch. “Now, where were we?” she whispers. Her hand slides over his belly as Otis Redding starts to sing. She slips under the hospital gown he’s forced to wear, takes him in hand.

It’s a perfect setting: soft light in the storm’s early darkness, the low hum of the box fan, the patter of rain with occasional rumbles of thunder, while the music winds its slow way through the room and she brings him, little by little, to the edge of release. Her breath strokes his jawline, sends a shiver through him so that he can’t help a groan. “ _Please_ ,” he says, and she sends him over into sweetness that floods his body and drives away the last of the lingering pain, not just in his leg but elsewhere too, at least for a while.

He wallows in afterglow for a long time. When he finally opens his eyes it’s to find Roz watches him, her head tipped back against the couch cushion. She says nothing, but she doesn’t have to—he can read it all in her expression, her eyes. The absolute love there astonishes him. He lifts his hand, touches her cheek.

_I’ve been loving you too long to stop now_

_you’re tired and you want to be free_

_my love is growing stronger as you become a habit to me_

His fingers trace her bottom lip, move to her jawline, and brush her neck. Slowly they drift down to the valley between her breasts and the thin skin there, like velvet under his touch.

_oh I’ve been loving you a little too long_

_I don’t wanna stop now_

_with you my life has been so wonderful_

_I can’t stop now_

He rubs his thumb over her right nipple and smiles a little as it hardens, to elicit a soft gasp from her, his name spoken low and sweet. “Greg . . .”

_you’re tired and your love is growing cold_

_my love is growing stronger as our affair grows old_

_I’ve been loving you a little too long_

_don’t make me stop now_

_no baby_

_I’m down on my knees_

_please don’t make me stop now_

He slides lower, traces patterns over her belly, slips his fingers under the waistband to the moist curls at the join of her thighs. She’s ready, the little knot of her clitoris already engorged and hot. When he circles it she arches, pushes into his hand as her lips press lightly against his carotid artery.

_I love you, I love you_

_with all of my heart_

_and I can’t stop now_

He uses a slow, deliberate approach, brings her to the edge several times, revels in her broken moans, the way she begs him to finish. And when he does ease her into climax, she cries out his name and a dark, fierce exultation fills him as she shudders and falls back gently against his body, to seek his embrace. He puts his arms around her and holds her close, savors the feel of her heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal.

_good god almighty I love you_

_I love you in so many different ways . . ._

“I don’t want you to stop,” she says finally. “And I’m not tired of you. Never, _amante_.”

“Why?” he has to ask, and flinches even as he says it. This kind of question has always spelled doom for the few love affairs of which he’s ever been part.

“I love you,” she says, as if that explains it.

“But . . . _why_?” He will never understand how she can say it, he has to push for more.

“You know why,” she says, her words barely a whisper. “It’s the same reason you love me.” She rests her cheek against his shoulder. “It just happened, and I’m so glad.”

“Most women would run like hell from an old gimp with no social skills and a history of disasters.”

“I’m happy most women did,” she says. “That means I get you and they don’t.” She sounds proud, as if she’s won a prize. He can’t help but argue with her.

“You’re insane. I have one gift—“

“You have more than one,” she says quietly, and puts her strong, slender hand over his heart. “No matter what you say I know you know how to love, because when you decided to love me you gave everything of yourself even though you were afraid to at first, and you keep on doing it. That’s all that matters, _amante_.”

“You say that now,” he has to point out. “When we fight it’s a different story.”

“No it isn’t,” she says. “When you hurt me I know you still love me, and I love you too.” She traces a slow circle on his skin. “We’ve both got a lot of old pain over having people break our trust, and sometimes it comes up between us . . . but I think we both understand that better now.”

Her absolute confidence in him takes his breath away; he holds her and wonders at the amazing gift life has handed him. Greatly daring, he decides to offer something in return.

“About trust,” he says, and hesitates. She doesn’t push, just waits. “I’ve never told you how I got the scar on my leg . . .”

He makes his way through the story, a bit surprised to find the raw pain that usually accompanies it is subdued, not as sharp than he’s used to. Maybe those intense emotions will never go away completely, but now they’re less immediate, and for that he is grateful.

Roz listens to him in silence. After he’s finished she says quietly, “I’m sorry you had to go through so much pain, _amante_.” She kisses him and there’s no pity in her touch, her soft lips a comfort to which he willingly opens.

By late afternoon the rain has cleared away to sunshine, so Roz gets up to open the curtains and the front door. She positions the fan to give the room plenty of circulation, then goes into the kitchen to make dinner. He can watch her from the couch; she flits back and forth, absorbed in her work, but now and then she turns her head and smiles at him. A short time later she comes out with a tray. There are hamburgers and condiments, a huge pile of french fries, and two bottles of beer. His mouth waters at the sight.

“I cleared it with Doctor Taub,” she says, and pops the caps off the beers. “Just one for now, but I thought it would make a nice change from iced tea.” She pulls a cushion from the easy chair and puts it on the floor, then sits down next to him and takes a plate, puts a burger on it. “What’ll you have?”

It’s the best dinner he’s had since being sprung from the medical slammer; he gives thanks that his wife is a great cook while he enjoys a juicy burger (dry, grilled onions) and a massive pile of fries with ketchup. Roz turns on the tv and they flip around the channels, from CNN to ESPN to the Three Stooges. Greg throws out snarky comments and Roz fields them right back; the two of them snicker like schoolkids at their own silly jokes. It’s the most pleasant way to spend an evening he can think of besides making love.

Eventually the beer hits his bladder. When he reaches for the chamber pot Roz says “Why not use the bathroom? Doctor Taub wants you to move around when you can. I’ll help you.”

“I hate that fucking wheelchair,” he growls.

“I know you do,” she says. “Give it a try anyway. If you need some incentive, I can help you clean up.” She gives him a sultry look with those last words and flutters her eyelashes at him, so that he can’t do anything but fight a laugh.

She helps him into the chair with that strength he always finds such a surprise, and when the pain jolts him and he swears at her, she gives it right back in Italian. But her touch is never less than gentle, and true to her word, once they arrive at the bathroom she gives him a basic sponge bath that makes him feel much better. She helps him with the dressing changes too, though it upsets her. Actually the graft and donor sites look pretty good—still red and crusty, but the graft is well on its way, and the bare patch on his thigh has started to heal and regrow new skin. Roz doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t shrink from the old soiled bandages and she offers him assistance to clean the sites, but he knows his pain causes her pain. And yet here she is anyway. He loves her for it, though he’ll probably never say so.

“Brought you something. If you like it I can get more,” she says after everything’s done. She offers some folded fabric, dark blue. When he shakes it out it’s a hospital gown, but not the translucent floral-patterned monstrosities he’s had to wear. This is more like a lightweight surgical scrub, with fasteners in the front where he can get at them easily. He puts it on; it still sucks but it’s something of an improvement, anyway.

“Blue is definitely your color,” Roz says. She tilts her head. “Handsome man.”

“Bet you say that to all the depraved sickos in hospital gowns,” he says.

“Nope, just you. You’re my favorite depraved sicko.” She smiles at him. “Ready to go back?”

It takes some time to get him settled once more, but she does it with her usual graceful efficiency. Once he’s comfortable she brings him some ice cream to take with his meds. She has a bowlful too, and enjoys every bite with all the enthusiasm of a small child.

When he’s done she gets the airbed out from the corner and puts it into position near the couch, drapes a sheet over it and dumps a couple of pillows and another sheet at one end. Greg watches her. He knows this is a huge sacrifice on her part; she treasures the new pillowtop queen bed they bought two months ago, it keeps her lower back in decent shape. But he sleeps better when he knows she’s close by, so she’s been down here since his return. She clambers atop the mattress and looks at him. “Ready for the light to go off?” she asks as she always does, and turns it out when he nods. He listens to the soft rustle of sheets. Then her hand touches his for a moment. “Good night,” she says softly.

The meds have begun to make him drowsy, so he slides into sleep bit by bit. The last thing he hears is Roz’s breathing, slow and even—a sound he’s come to know and rely on for some time now. It eases him into the soft darkness.

_‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’, Otis Redding_


	12. Chapter 12

_July 20th_

Jason glanced at the clock. It was only a minute or two past the last time he’d looked. With a sigh of impatience he got up from his seat and went to the door for the physical therapy room. He hesitated, not quite sure he had the courage to open it; Mom was in there now, and she tended to guard her privacy when it came to things like PT sessions.

He still debated when the door opened. Mom stood next to the therapist. Her face was flushed from exertion and she looked exhausted, but she smiled too.

“Hey Jason.” Mr. Dawes nodded at him. “Your mom’s making great progress. One more session and she’ll be on her own.” He glanced at Mom. “Don’t overdo it, and if you have any problems give me a call, okay?”

Jason brought the wheelchair over and watched as Mr. Dawes eased Mom into it with gentle hands. She sat down and leaned back with a quiet sigh. “Okay, Bill. Thanks. See you next week.”

Dad was waiting for them at the front entrance. He got out of the van and helped Mom into the front passenger seat, while Jason stowed the chair in the back. As he claimed his own spot Dad said to Mom, “Are you still up for a book run or would you rather go home first? I can pick up your holds for you.”

“No, I’d like to go.” Mom smiled at him. “I’m a little tired but the pain isn’t bad at all. Besides, I want to browse the stacks and see what’s new.”

Before his fostering and adoption by Mom and Dad, Jason hadn’t ever set foot in the village library. Now it had become his favorite haunt. He loved the rows of books, DVDs, CDs and games, the quiet nooks with comfortable chairs where you could spend hours undisturbed, the new computer stations, even the big table by the window a large group of older men had claimed as their own. Most of them retired farmers, who gathered every morning to read the paper, gossip and drink coffee; they reminded him of Gibbs.

One of the librarians had just opened the doors when they arrived. There was already a line of people at the entrance. Jason slung his bookbag over his shoulder and got Mom’s chair, but when he offered to take her in Dad shook his head. “I’ll walk with Mom,” he said, and gave Jason a pat on the shoulder. “See you at the front desk.”

Jason needed no further encouragement. He headed inside, dropped off his returns and went straight to the Holds shelf. Half a dozen books waited there for him, marked by paper slips with his name printed on them and held in place with rubber bands. It was a catholic selection; he often walked the stacks and grabbed random titles, anything that appealed to him or caught his eye. This week’s group included a biography of Catherine Sforza, three science fiction novels-- _More Than Human, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, Childhood’s End_ —and a British cookbook. He’d watched episodes of _Doctor Who_ with Mom and Dad over the last few days and wanted to know what fish fingers and custard were . . .  Jason frowned. Somehow an extra book had been added. He took off the slip and rubber bands, stowed them in his pocket and looked at the cover: _Flyboys: A True Story of Courage_. He flipped through the first few pages and began to skim-read. It took only a couple of paragraphs for him to realize he’d just discovered a major resource in the search for his letter writer’s history. He drew in a deep breath as excitement and anticipation surged through him. With hands that shook just a little he stuffed the book in his backpack and hurried to the front desk.

It took only a few minutes to get his books checked. The librarian at the desk teased him gently about a half-load, but he was too focused on his unexpected windfall to pay her much mind. Once he was free he went outside and claimed a bench by the entrance, took out the extra book and began to read.

He was halfway through the second chapter by the time Mom and Dad showed up; he didn’t even notice their arrival until Mom said softly, “It must be a really good read.” When Jason looked up she smiled at him, though she was pale and a little drawn now.

“I didn’t put this on hold, it just showed up with my other books,” he said, and stood. Dad guided Mom’s chair toward the van with Jason at their side.

“What’s it about?” Dad asked.

“Pilots in the southern Pacific during World War Two.” Jason did his best to keep his voice level and winced as it cracked. At least Mom and Dad never laughed at him when it happened. He could well imagine what his real dad would have done. He pushed the thought away and focused on what Mom said.

“Sounds like a fortunate accident.” She reached out and touched his arm. “We’d like to hear about it when you’re done.”

Once they reached the house Jason went to his room and dumped his backpack by the bed. It was tempting to curl up on the bed and read, but he wanted to make sure Mom was okay first. And he was hungry too. There would be leftover muffins and bacon in the kitchen from breakfast . . . He tucked the copy of _Flyboys_ under his arm and ventured into the living room.

Mom was on the couch now. Dad had just placed one of the box fans so that it blew cool air in her direction. “I’ll bring you some iced tea,” he said. Jason paused. There was a tone in Dad’s voice, a quality that spoke of love and concern, and something else—something Jason couldn’t really figure out. It was deep and dark, but not wrong; he felt comforted by it, not frightened.

“Would you watch a movie with me?” Mom said. “Your choice. No chick flicks, you have my promise.”

“I don’t mind watching Jane Austen stories, just not marathons,” Dad said with a grin.

“Since when have I subjected you to one of those?” she said, but she was amused.

“Only last night.”

“No way! You fell asleep halfway through, that doesn’t count.”

Jason rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen. He put the book on the counter, got out a plate and stacked three muffins, half the leftover bacon, a hard-boiled egg and some fresh peach slices to make it all look good and earn him some points for healthy eating.

“Second breakfast already? Think I’ll join you,” Dad said from the doorway. He came in and stole one of the muffins from Jason’s plate.

“Hey!” It was a token protest. Dad took a big bite out of the top and scattered crumbs everywhere. He set it aside and went into the fridge, got out some butter and jam.

“Want some of this?” Dad held the jam jar aloft. At Jason’s nod he took the other muffins, split them and began to spread each half with generous amounts of strawberry preserves. “What else are you reading?”

Jason gave him the current list, his mind on the book he’d brought with him. When he finished Dad nodded. “That’s a good list,” he said. “You haven’t read any of Sturgeon’s work before, have you? Would you like to read it together?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. They’d just finished _The Lantern Bearers_ and were ready for something new. “Let’s do that.” He went to the fridge and took some cheese out of the bin. “Dad . . . did you put this book on pilots in my hold pile?”

“Who, me?” Dad said through a mouthful of muffin. He dumped his knife in the sink and put the butter and jam away, got a bigger plate and put the muffin halves on it, along with the bacon, egg and peaches.

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Jason said. “Who do you—“ He stopped. House . . . it had to be.

“You might be right,” Dad said. Jason looked at him, startled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Dad took another muffin from the basket and put it on a small plate, along with a paper napkin. “Come watch movies with us,” he said, and went into the living room.

All day the thought nagged at him, through every activity: had House put the book in his path? It would be relatively easy to get his card number and do it online—but why would he do it? It didn’t make sense, and the more he thought about it the more confused and unsure he became.

He had his chance to find out the truth that evening, when he and Dad went to visit House and Roz with a takeout dinner they’d picked up from Poppi Lou’s.

House was crashed out on the couch just as Mom was at home. He looked much the same too, a little pale and drawn, but his face brightened when Dad set the pizzas on the coffee table.

“Yeah, he’s sick of my cooking,” Roz said with a laugh. “He keeps complaining I’ll poison him with green leafys and too many veggies.”

“It’s disgusting how healthy we are around here,” House grumbled, and lifted a slice out of the box. Even though Jason’s belly was comfortably full from dinner, his mouth watered at the sight. House glared at him.

“Forget it, junior,” he said, and ate a huge bite.

Roz gave Jason a slice anyway, and Dad got one too. He and House drank beer while Jason and Roz had iced tea. There were fresh grapes afterward, cold and sweet. Jason enjoyed them and wondered how he could talk to House alone. He wasn’t sure the older man would tell him anything, but he had to try.

His moment came when they about to leave. Aunt Roz and Dad were at the door. Jason lingered next to the couch and tried not to fidget.

“What?” House growled at him after a few moments. “You look like a constipated cat on hot bricks.”

“Did you put a book on my library card?” Okay, he’d at least said it.

“They don’t have a category for porn, otherwise I’d load you up,” House said. He squinted at Jason. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There was a book about pilots in the Pacific in my holds,” Jason said. “About the guys who flew with the man who wrote the letters you gave me.”

“You don’t say.” House took a swallow of beer.

“So you didn’t do it?”

“It’s your conundrum,” House said. Jason frowned.

“What’s that?”

“Look it up. Do it at home.” And just that fast he was dismissed.

Jason thought about it on the way back to the house. House hadn’t denied he’d done it, but he hadn’t confirmed it either. Something was definitely up, but direct questioning wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted. He’d have to do some digging . . .

“I can smell your brain circuits overheating,” Dad said in a wry tone. “Talk to me.” He listened as Jason gave him a brief explanation. “I think whoever did it isn’t going to admit to the deed,” he said after a brief pause. “You’re spinning your wheels right now trying to figure it out. Set it aside and use the information provided. Then later you can come back to your possible mystery benefactor.” He opened the gate between fields. “Mom wants to go to the drive-in tomorrow. Interested?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. What’s playing?”

They talked about the movies the rest of the way home while he considered Dad’s words. The advice was sound; he’d follow it until the pilot’s story was uncovered, and then he’d find out who got him the book.

“Big storm coming,” Dad said as they reached their own back yard, and indeed the sky to the west was full of dark and ominous clouds which advanced on them steadily. “Make sure your window’s closed, we’ll get strong winds.”

As Jason did so a rush of cool air filled the house and popped open his door, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. He went into the living room and found Dad with an oil lamp in hand. “Just in case,” he said, and set it on the stand next to the couch, then moved around the room to close down the windows on the west side.

“I just hope it doesn’t hit the transformer,” Mom said, and jumped as lightning struck close by. A moment later the power went off. She and Dad chuckled.

“Hah. You jinxed us,” Dad said with a grin. He went into the kitchen and came back with a cold beer. “I’m drinkin’ this now while it’s still chilled.”

“Any excuse,” Mom said tartly. In the soft lamplight her bright curls sparked and glowed. Jason watched as she made room for Dad, who propped her legs on a pillow across his lap. Mom leaned back with a soft sigh.

“You okay?” Dad asked. Mom nodded.

“We’d better call the co-op to let them know.”

Jason came over and sat on the floor next to Mom. She put her hand on his head and stroked his hair. He rested his head against her side and listened to Dad as he made the call. It was still muggy but the air was much cooler now; rain fell hard outside.

“You’ve had a busy day,” Mom said softly. “If the electricity doesn’t come back for a while, why not go to bed early? You and Dad could go fishing tomorrow when the sun comes up.”

Jason nodded and closed his eyes as Mom’s hand stroked his cheek. “Who do you think gave me the book?” he asked. Mom didn’t answer right away.

“Someone who wants to help,” she said finally. “That’s all you really need to know right now, don’t you think?” She leaned in and kissed the top of his head. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Me?” Jason said, startled by this unexpected compliment. “Why?”

“I just am.” The power flickered and came back on. “Oh, thank goodness. I wasn’t lookin’ forward to a night without a fan.”

“We aim to please,” Dad said with a grin. He put his cell phone away. “Movies up next. What are we watching?”

“Jason’s choice,” Mom said.

“ _Sense and Sensibility_ ,” he said promptly. Mom laughed and Dad groaned, but Jason knew Dad faked it. Mostly.

“Suckup,” Dad said. “At least it’s got Emma Thompson in it, that’s some consolation.”

“Leering at other women in an art film. That’s my husband, class all the way,” Mom said, and handed Dad the remote. “Just for that you not only get to set things up, you can make the popcorn too.”

Later that night, Jason lay in his bed and listened to the oscillating fan creak and sigh as it moved humid air. He would unravel the mystery—the conundrum, as House had called it, of the young man who had written those letters long ago, his history and his fate . . . and he’d find out who provided the book too, no matter what it took. _Can’t wait to tell Mandy,_ he thought before sleep claimed him.


	13. Chapter 13

_July 25th_

Greg pulls Barbarella into the parking lot of the clinic, claims his personal spot next to the back door (and therefore closest to his office), shuts off the engine and sits for a moment. It’s his first day back since the surgery, and while he’ll only stay an hour or two, it’s still something of an occasion, at least for him. First however, he has to get into the building, and that requires a piece of equipment he’d hoped he was done with for good. He takes the cane from its spot on the seat next to him, draws in a breath and opens the door.

It feels all too horribly familiar to limp into work with measurable pain levels, even if the number is low. This brings back memories of the bad old days at PPTH and other jobs. He really doesn’t want that _gris-gris_ to sneak in here, but at the moment he has no choice. There’s only one solution: chase those nasty memories away with music and a non-opiate controlled substance.

He keeps a bottle of Booker’s in his bottom desk drawer. Nowadays he doesn’t use it much, there’s no real need for it without the breakthrough pain that necessitated it in the first place. Today however, he figures he’s earned a shot before lunch. The team meeting on the new patient won’t start for another hour. That gives him plenty of time to get settled and surf a little while he listens to good tunes. He takes out the bottle and dumps a shot into the travel cup as Singh walks by. The other man doesn’t even glance into the office, just continues on his way. Sandesh is not easily startled by behavior that steps outside boundaries, though Greg knows he saw the bourbon. It’s one of the reasons why Singh is such a valuable asset to the team; he doesn’t judge.

When Greg goes online it’s to find an email from Roz with a link. He opens it and finds a recording of the first Bruch violin concerto by Yehudi Menuhin, aged fifteen at the time, with the London Symphony. The work is a great favorite of his, as well his wife knows; this is an unexpected and delightful treat.

He ends up stretched out full-length in his Eames chair—the closest he can come at the moment to lying on the floor--a decent measure of booze in the mocha milkshake he brought with him from home (Roz makes really kickass ones with leftover espresso, steamed milk and dark cocoa), headphones on, lost in the beauty of the music and Menuhin’s interpretation. It’s very much a young man’s Bruch, a little pushy, a little imprecise here and there, but performed with a poet’s sensitivity and subtleness; it’s all about the music, just as it should be. At the second iteration of the theme, as the orchestra takes flight on the rising intervals, chills dance over his skin at the sheer magnificence of it all. Oh, this is a keeper, and he owes Roz something worthy of this gift. She’s lusted after a set of hand-embroidered tablecloths on some website or other; they cost enough to keep him comfortably in lunches for a month, but he can always jack the vending machines at the medical center, or mooch off his team. He does that most of the time anyway, so it won’t really matter.

He’s through the _Adagio_ and headed into the _Allegro energetico_ when he senses a presence. Slowly he opens one eye. It’s Chase. There’s an expression on the younger man’s face that Greg hasn’t seen in some time; it’s one of apprehension. Chase’s lips move. Greg lifts one of the ear covers. “Huh?”

“Welcome back. I think,” Chase says. His gaze strays to the milkshake. “A little early in the day, isn’t it?”

“Never too early for caffeine and creamy goodness unless you’re a vice cop,” Greg says. “Spying on me?” That too is a reminder of bad times, the days of Vogler and Tritter and detox.

“Traded clinic hours with Chandler.” Chase nods at the cane. “Temporary, I hope.”

“It’s a mirage brought on by your terrible thirst,” Greg tells him. He knows he can poke Chase about his alcoholism up to a certain point and get away with it. His remark earns him a wry glance.

“Right. See you in twenty.” The younger man moves from the doorway and into the hall. Greg replaces his headphones just as McMurphy shows up with an enormous wad of mail in one hand and a stack of files in the other. Without a word she comes in, dumps them on his desk and walks out. He glares after her, then sifts through the post. It’s been sorted—no surprises there, his second-in-command always takes out the circulars, big pharma and supply form letters, and other detritus; that leaves plenty of requests for speaking engagements at conferences and seminars, as well as the inevitable raft of resumes and pleas for employment. He checks through for pictures of hotties, but nothing shows up so they all go into the trash, along with the other crap. If McMurphy had found anything she knew was worth his time, she’d have set it aside. He sips his drink and savors the blend of smoky fire and mellow sweetness, just as his cell phone rings. It’s Wilson. He frowns at the caller ID, then turns off the music, tosses his headphones aside and answers it.

“You’re still with us? Wonders never cease.”

There’s a slight pause. “Well I sincerely hope so,” Wilson says dryly. “I’m doing fine, thanks. And you?”

“Peachy. What do you want?”

“I just talked to Sarah. I’ll—I’ll be coming up in another week or so.” Wilson sounds uncertain now. “You . . . you’re still okay with this?”

Greg snorts. “Would it matter if I said no?”

Wilson sighs. “If you don’t want me there, just say so. Don’t play games.”

“If you’re not sure who you’re talking to, hang up and try again.” Greg heaves a sigh. “So literal-minded. Clearly no one demonstrated the joys of critical thinking and extrapolation somewhere along the way in your education.” He rolls his eyes, though Wilson can’t see him. “You just ruined the laugh by not getting it, thanks so much.”

“If I did anything else you’d accuse me of conspiracy,” Wilson says. Greg knows he has a point.

“Balls. Or should I say, defective thymus gland.”

“Such an apt rejoinder.” For one moment the dry sarcasm in Wilson’s tone takes Greg back; he could be in his old office, the one with the glass walls. He half-expects Cuddy to barge in and screech at him about clinic hours . . . With a shudder he turns his attention back to Wilson.

“—stay for just a couple of weeks with Sarah and Gene. After that I’m on sabbatical for six months.”

“You’ll never be able to stay away from the office that long,” Greg says.

“That’s why I’m going to the other coast.” Wilson says it simply, without fanfare or flourish. “Northern California. I’ve—I’ve leased a place.”

“You’re thinking about moving there,” Greg says. There’s a brief silence.

“We’ll see.”

“You’ll hate the land of fruits and nuts. California requires a certain mental adjustment, and you’re not capable of making it.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Personal experience talking?” Wilson wants to know.

“Nope.” He’s never told anyone about his time in LA, brief though it was.

“Liar,” Wilson says cheerfully. “I’ll pry it out of you later.”

“Yippee, something to look forward to.” Greg sips his shake and makes a noisy slurp. “Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?”

“Gee, nice talking with you too,” Wilson says. “See you in a week.” And he’s gone. Greg hangs up, sits back and stirs his drink with his straw. He’s still not sure how he feels about Wilson’s stay. Roz is a little worried but basically okay about it, which means she’s decided on steps to deal with anything that comes up; that’s his woman, analytical to the bone and practical too . . . but that isn’t his most pressing problem at the moment. He turns his head to stare at the cane. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to go into his meeting as old-style cripple, but he has little choice. It’s use it or crawl, and neither options hold any appeal.

“Hey boss,” Singh says from the doorway. He has his backpack slung over his arm. “I suggest we hold the meeting in here. Someone burned a bag of microwave popcorn in the conference room.”

Greg studies him for a few moments. “Did they now,” he says.

“Yup,” Singh says. “The whole area reeks of burned protein. Colleen says the room has to be aired out for the rest of the day.”

Greg gives him a long stare. “I could say something about inscrutable Asians,” he says finally.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that,” Singh says, his dark eyes impassive, but with just a hint of humor in their depths. He disappears into the hallway, to return with the rest of the team. They make themselves comfortable in the visitors chairs McMurphy insists he keep around, and take out their files.

“First round of tests are completed,” Chandler says; predictable to the end, she’s the one who dives right in. “The patient exhibits dystonia and dysphagia during and outside of the usual stress tests. There’s some evidence of toe-walking and tremor when stressed however.”

“Mental state’s weird,” Chase says, as he flips through pages.

“You and your technical terms,” Greg says. “Define ‘weird’.”

“Even for a developmentally delayed ten year old, this kid hasn’t moved ahead much. It’s hard to tell because of the speech problems, but I suspect mild dementia that might be progressing slowly enough that no one’s really noticed.” Chase sets the file aside and leans back, hands folded over his middle. “Someone slapped a mental retardation label on this boy fairly early on.”

“No history of seizures,” Singh chips in. “There are behavioral episodes but sporadic.”

“The family is Indian,” Greg says. “From the Agarwal community.” Singh nods; he gets it. Greg’s respect for his fellow’s diagnostic skills climbs another notch.

“We’re checking the appropriate genetic markers, but the test’s still a good two weeks out,” Singh says. “We need to make sure before we proceed on our presumption though.”

“’Presumption’?” Chase gives Singh a surprised glance.

“Lazyass,” Greg says. Chase looks discomfited. He makes a note on the file; Greg can just make out the words ‘agar wall’, and hides a smile.

“An MRI would be a good idea,” Chandler says in a dogged manner; she expects resistance.

“Okay,” Greg says. She gives him a hard stare; he returns it with a mild look, as he enjoys her confusion. “Set it up.” He tosses the file on his desk, his signal that the meeting’s over. Chase and Chandler shuffle out. Singh stands, file in hand.

“When do we tell them?” he asks quietly.

“We don’t.”

Singh nods and slips off. He knows the boy won’t come to any harm while the other two figure things out. Greg watches him go and wonders how on earth the man survived years of general practice. He’s become a top-notch diagnostician, and Greg’s happy to have him in his clutches. He sits back with a sigh and realizes he’s tired and sore, but without the anxiety a ddx session used to bring back when he worked in the glass box.

“Hey,” Roz says from the doorway. She’s in her blue jumpsuit, a pair of gloves tucked in her back pocket, and a cooler in hand. “Looks like I timed things just right. How about some lunch?”

She’s brought good stuff: hoagies on Poppi’s fresh rolls, with salami and roast beef, provolone, a peppery oil and vinegar dressing and fresh tomatoes and lettuce from Sarah’s garden, along with chips and watermelon. Greg watches his wife enjoy her sandwich with the enthusiasm of a child and relaxes even more. This is not PPTH, and he no longer lives in a goldfish bowl.  

“How’s your day gone so far?” she asks when they’ve both finished lunch. Anyone else would nag him to go home, but she’s much smarter than that, and he appreciates it.

“Boring,” he says, and munches some chips. “Wanna fool around?”

“I still have half a day’s work ahead of me, buster,” she says. “But I’d be up for some of that later, when we’re both home.” She gives him a look from those green eyes that promise all sorts of delights, and he’s ready to leave right now.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, and moves his good leg over a little so she has a great view of his crotch. She laughs just as Chandler comes in. Joy’s removed her suit coat so she’s in her white blouse and charcoal grey skirt; she looks like an ex-nun who hasn’t really given up the life. At Roz’s laugh she narrows her eyes and turns her back on them to go to the fridge; it’s plain she thinks his wife just made fun of her. He’s about to open his mouth and confirm her paranoia when Roz says

“Doctor Chandler, how’s the wiring holding up at your place?” She says it in a tone of genuine friendliness that makes him blink. Chandler doesn’t turn around.

“It’s fine,” she says. There’s wariness in her flat tone, a defensiveness Greg knows and understands all too well.

“Okay, good. Let me know about the back room. I think I have a solution.”

Chandler turns around now. She has a diet yogurt and a bowl of salad. “Solution?”

Roz gets up. “Yeah, I think so. I know you’re on lunch break, but . . . could I show you? It’ll only take a minute or two.”

The next thing Greg knows, Roz and Joy sit together, their heads bent over a piece of paper. Roz draws what Greg presumes are outlets on a hasty diagram of a room. “We can add here and here,” she says. He remembers her doing the same thing with the office at Gene and Sarah’s, and then in their new home, to upgrade wiring in the kitchen and the bedroom they’d turned into a study. “I’ll talk to your landlord, it’s not a big deal and he’s usually pretty good about fixing things.”

“Okay,” Chandler says, and now there’s actual warmth in her voice. “Thanks, Roz.” She even offers a slight smile before she remembers Greg’s in the room. Immediately her expression changes, becomes impassive, but the wariness is back in her dark eyes. She picks up her lunch and leaves. Roz doesn’t try to stop her; she just watches the other woman slip away, then comes back to Greg.

“Getting cozy with the hired help, that’s so below-stairs,” he teases. Roz kisses his cheek, rests her forehead against his temple for just a moment.

“I was like her before you,” she says simply. He feels her mouth curve in a smile. “I can afford to be kind.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he kisses her—a promise they’ll both make good on later—and watches her leave, as all sorts of interesting thoughts wander through his mind.

Greg heads for home shortly after Roz’s departure. He really is tired now, and his leg has started to hurt despite the drugs. He wants to be on the couch, settled in to watch tv with a cold beer and plenty of breakthrough pain meds in him, and that won’t happen here. Besides, everyone’s off to run tests, and there’s nothing for him to do. So he packs up his stuff and slings his backpack over his shoulder, then limps over to McMurphy’s desk.

“Outta here,” he says. McMurphy doesn’t look up from her computer screen.

“Good to see you,” she says, and glances at him before she returns to her work. It’s an acknowledgment, a little nod of respect. He glares at her because she expects it, but feels a little lighter of heart as he walks out the door.

Chandler sits under the trees at the beat-up picnic table Chase trash-picked a couple of months ago. She’s finished her lunch, such as it is, and reads a book. He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he goes to his car. She’s deep into it, shoulders hunched a little as she sits forward in the classic reader’s pose, the real world shut out for a few precious moments . . . He opens Barbarella’s door and settles in with a sigh, gauges his pain levels, then sticks his head out the window. “Hey!” he calls. Chandler doesn’t respond. “ _Hey_! Paging Doctor Chandler!”

Slowly she lifts her head up and looks at him. Her expression holds a wary question. Greg puts his hand out and makes a come-on gesture.

“ _What?_ ” she says with some impatience.

“Ice cream,” he says.

“I just ate lunch.” She is patently suspicious now.

“So? Can’t tell me you don’t have room for a twisty cone. And a ride in a cool car,” he says, as he pats Barbarella’s side gently.

Two minutes later they’re cruising down the street, an oldies station on the radio. Chandler stares out the window. She sits with knees together, her back straight, not an ounce of relaxation in her. As they pull into the ice cream stand she gives him a fleeting glance. “What do you want?” she asks.

“Large chocolate. Wow, your treat? You’re so nice,” he says. Chandler rolls her eyes and opens the door as he puts the car in park.

Business is brisk, but so is the service. It’s not long before she returns with his cone and a smaller one for her, a vanilla-chocolate twist. The silence between them is about one molecule more companionable than it was before, but at least there’s a difference. So of course he has to mess with it, see what kind of result he gets.

“Two flavors,” he says, and licks the drips from the bottom edge of his cone. “Interesting.”

Chandler hesitates before she takes a bite of ice cream. A slow blush creeps across her cheeks. Greg’s brows rise. Wow, direct hit on the first try. This is way too easy.

“I like vanilla and chocolate,” she says. Her blush deepens.

“That explains so much.” He swipes his tongue around the pile of ice cream and gives her a suggestive look. Chandler lowers her cone.

“If you did this just to sexually harass me, I would point out you are married to a lovely woman. Why you need to hit on me is a mystery.” She speaks with no bitterness, just a certain bleak resignation that punctures his amusement like an over-inflated tire on a rusty nail.

“Eating ice cream is not sexual harassment,” he says. “It’s eating ice cream. If you think it’s anything else, that’s you creating something out of nothing.”

“So one would like to think,” she says quietly. “I need to get back to work, I’ve got clinic hours coming up.”

She finishes the ice cream on the return trip and says nothing more, just hops out of the car when he drops her off and goes into the building, head unbowed. Greg watches her for a few moments but she doesn’t turn around. She opens the door and goes in. He exits the parking lot for home and eats the last of his cone, enlightened but not enough to satisfy him.


	14. Chapter 14

_August 2nd_

“We need to make a list for school and do some shopping.”

Jason glanced at Sarah. “We do?” His voice held surprise.

Sarah looked at the shorts and tank top he wore. The jeans his cutoffs were made from had been brand-new four months ago. Now not only were they a size too small, they’d been cut because the knees had worn out, and the patches on the knees after that. “Yup,” she said. “We can go this weekend. I need your summer book reading list too in the unlikely case you missed anything.”

He gave her an impatient roll of his eyes. “Mom, I emailed it to you already. I read all the books and wrote reports, they’re turned in so you don’t have to nag me.”

“Ah,” she said, careful to hide her amusement. “Thank you, sweetheart, well done. So . . .” She perused the store circular. “Jeans of course, right? And tees. Socks, shoes, a new jacket and a winter coat too, and boots. What else?”

Jason lowered his gaze and fidgeted. “I don’t . . .” he said slowly, and stopped. Sarah sat up a little straighter.

“What is it?”

“You and Dad just bought me all new stuff,” he said quickly. “I can still wear some of it.”

Sarah smiled. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re a growing boy, Jay. You’ll go through a lot of things, we understand that. Anything you outgrow that’s still in decent shape, we’ll donate to the clothing drive at the church.”

“I’m wasting your money,” he said. He sounded forlorn, a little desperate. “It’s not right.”

The comment floored her. Since he’d started work with the psychologist Hazel had recommended, her colleague Doctor Caitlin Morrow, Jason had made steady progress. Every now and then however, something like this cropped up. How long had he felt this way? “Jason,” she said softly. A lump rose in her throat. “ _M’chridhe_ , we aren’t wasting our money. Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.” She patted the spot next to her on the couch. He stood and came to her with visible reluctance, but when he sat down she put her arm around him and he relaxed against her without hesitation. His head came to rest on her shoulder. As always, his willingness to trust her made her heart ache with both love and pain. She tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Why would you think that?” she asked gently.

“My biological father . . . he told me it was stupid to buy clothes for kids, they just grow out of them.” Jason’s voice cracked on the last word and he winced.

“So you had to find your own?” Jason nodded.

“I took Dad’s old tee shirts and Mom’s jeans most of the time,” he said. “If they caught me they’d—“ He stopped. “I . . . I never had anything else.” He hesitated. “Well, that’s not true. I stole a pair of sneakers once, when my old pair fell apart.”

Sarah kissed the side of his head. “I wore my brothers hand-me-downs,” she said. “My grandmother bought me a dress and a pair of nice shoes for church on Sundays. The rest of the time I wore whatever fit and wasn’t too dirty. Sometimes I stole too. It was that or go barefoot, or without enough to wear.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, you won’t ever have to do that here.” Sarah stroked his hair. “Dad and I are happy to give you whatever you need, and maybe even some things you want.” She felt him relax a bit.

“Okay,” he said at last.

“Good. Why don’t we take a look through the circular and you make a list of what you need and some things you’d like, and we’ll go from there.” She kissed him again. “You know, we could talk with Dad about an allowance. You do chores around the house, you get paid.”

“Really?” He sounded doubtful. “What—what kind of chores?”

“Well, in the summer you could help out in the garden. You’ve done a great job for me this year.”

“Thanks. I like gardening,” Jason said. He sounded pleased and uncertain at the same time.

“Good,” Sarah said, equally pleased. “Maybe we could plan next year’s garden together. And you could talk to Dad about the yard. He wants to replant the whole thing with chamomile so he won’t have to mow it anymore, but it’ll need weeding and an extra pair of hands would be welcome.”

“Yeah, that would be cool.” He relaxed a little more. “Do you think—“ He stopped.

“Go ahead,” Sarah said when he didn’t go on.

“How about I cook one night a week? I know how to make breakfast and sandwiches for lunch but I don’t know any recipes for dinner,” Jason said.

“That’s an excellent idea.” She foresaw some interesting evening meals ahead, but it was in a good cause.

“So what could I do in the winter? Besides cook.”

Sarah thought about it. “I think you should be in charge of first-floor firewood and fireplaces,” she said. “Dad and I can take care of upstairs.”

“You mean keep everything cleaned out and bring in logs?” Jason nodded. “Okay. I can split firewood now too, Dad showed me how.”

Sarah ruffled his hair gently. “Gonna bulk up doin’ that,” she said. “You get cut and buff, all the girls will want to feel your muscles.”

“ _Mom_. . .” He gave her a pained look. Sarah laughed, but deep inside she felt a little tug of sadness. He grew so fast . . . already he’d put on two more inches since March. He would be lean and tall, probably as tall as Gene or Greg, and handsome with it; he actually resembled Gene just a little, though his features weren’t as angular and his hair held more of a curl. To distract herself from her thoughts she tugged on one of those curls now.

“You need a haircut,” she said. “Shaggy beast.”

“Dad says he’s gonna use the hedge clippers on me.” Jason took one of Sarah’s locks between his fingers. “Was yours always like this?”

“Yup, right from the start.” She remembered when her grandmother had forced her to cut it short once as a punishment and inadvertently given her a fiery halo of berserk curls that no amount of Dippity-Do or even grease could tame. “Dad has to get his cut too, you could go with him.”

Jason nodded. “I like Gordy,” he said. “He says House told him he has emphysema. That’s why his son is working with him.” He picked up the circular and stared at it. “I’d like to do that—work with Dad. It would be cool.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d like that too,” Sarah said. “Talk with him about it.” She gave him a little hug. “Now let’s make a list.”

They debated the merits of a parka versus a wool coat with a lining when the phone rang. Sarah reached out to answer it. She saw the caller ID and smiled. “Good morning, Goldman’s Nursing Home,” she said sweetly. Jason snickered.

“Gee, you and House should both do stand-up,” James said dryly. “I’m about half an hour away. Anything you need me to bring in from the outside world?”

“Just yourself,” Sarah said. “Although doughnuts are never refused, especially if they have chocolate cream in them.”

“Already taken care of that,” he said on a chuckle. “See you shortly.”

“What’s Doctor Wilson like?” Jason asked as Sarah replaced the phone.

“How about this: you tell me what you think he’s like after you’ve spent some time with him.”

“What if I don’t like him?” Jason snuggled a little closer.

“Then you don’t like him,” Sarah said, and was careful to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “Nobody likes everyone.”

“You like him,” Jason said.

“Yes, I do. We’re old friends. We went to college together.”

“Did you know him before you met Dad?” Sarah nodded. “Did you . . . did you live together?”

“Yes,” Sarah said quietly. “It didn’t work out, but we’re still friends.”

“How can you be friends?” Jason turned a bit to look at her.

“We were friends before we became more than that,” Sarah said. “Good friends. Even when we realized things wouldn’t work out for us to get married, we liked each other enough to keep the friendship going.”

Jason lay his head back down on her shoulder. “I heard you and Dad talking about him the other day,” he said after a time. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop . . . can I ask you something?”

“It’s okay,” Sarah said. “What would you like to ask?”

“What’s wrong with Doctor Wilson? It sounds like he’s been really sick.”

“Yes, but that’s all I can tell you.”

Jason sighed softly. “But you and Dad know about it.”

“Because James told us. You can ask him yourself when you get to know him better,” Sarah said. “If you were the one who was sick, would you want the news spread all over without your permission?” She felt a twist of pain as she remembered her mistake with Greg’s journal. It had been a hard lesson, but she’d learned it well.

“Maybe not,” Jason said slowly. “It would depend.”

Sarah glanced at him, surprised. “Depend? On what?”

“On whether the people around me could help,” he said simply, and turned back to the circular. “Do you think I could have a black hoodie? If we get it one size larger I could wear it longer.”

The lump was back in Sarah’s throat. “Sure,” she said, and gave her boy a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“ _Mom_ . . .” He looked exasperated, but he didn’t pull away. “Will you stop being so sickening and help me with this list?”

Sarah swallowed a laugh. “Yes, dear,” she said in half-serious meekness, and picked up her pen.

James’s arrival was punctual, as expected. He wore a casual shirt and khakis, quite plainly new and at least two sizes smaller than was normal for him; he was far too thin and pale, and his brown eyes had a haunted look Sarah had never seen before. But his embrace was heartfelt, and his smile held genuine happiness. “So good to see you,” he said.

Sarah guided him to the couch. “Jason can bring in your things. Relax for a while, you’ve had a long journey.”

“Took me three days,” James said, and leaned back into the couch with a sigh. A few moments later he was asleep. Sarah studied him. He looked worn, with shadows in his face that told her how very close he’d come to the edge. Fear gripped her, but only for a moment. He was here, and he would get better.

“Is he okay?” Jason stood behind her, James’s luggage in hand. Sarah put a finger to her lips, then pointed upstairs. Jason gave her a thoughful look. After a moment he did as she asked, careful to tread lightly. Sarah turned away and went into the kitchen to make lunch.

She’d just finished the last of the sandwiches when James said from the doorway, “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. Come in and have a seat, make yourself at home.”

He did as she asked. “I’d forgotten how quiet it is here,” he said, and peered out the window. “That’s House’s place?”

“Yes.” Sarah set a glass of iced tea in front of him. “He and Roz moved in earlier this summer.”

“Those are—there are _cattle_ in that pasture,” James said. His tone held disbelief. “House owns _cows_?”

“They aren’t his,” Sarah said mildly, amused. She set a plate with a sandwich in front of him. “One of the local farmers leases the land and puts some of his herd there.”

“House has cows in his back yard.” James shook his head. “Just when you think his life couldn’t get any stranger . . .” He touched the sandwich. “Sare . . . sorry, but I’m not sure I can eat this.”

“What do you need?” she asked. “Something soft?”

“No . . .” He sighed softly. “Just not hungry. Since the last round of chemo, nothing’s tasted good and my stomach . . . ‘touchy’ would be an understatement.”

“Ah.” Sarah removed the sandwich. “Jason will take care of this. How about some homemade chicken soup?”

James lifted his gaze to hers, startled. “The Miracle Worker recipe? You’re still making that? I love that stuff.” He hesitated. “You--you have some on hand? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“There’s always some stored in the freezer for colds and flu,” she said, and put her hand over his. “It’s no trouble to help an old friend, you know. You’re here to rest and recuperate before you go on sabbatical.”

She watched in secret relief as he ate nearly a whole cup of soup. He was on the last spoonful when Jason came into the kitchen, his expression impassive. Sarah smiled at him. “Jason, this is my friend Doctor James Wilson. James, this is my son Jason.”

James put down his spoon. He offered a slight smile. “Nice to meet you, Jason. Your mother’s told me all kinds of good things about you.”

Jason nodded. “Thank you, Doctor Wilson. Mom’s told me about you too, she said you were old friends.” His glance slid toward the sandwich. James’s lips twitched. He pushed the plate in Jason’s direction.

“Yes, we’ve known each other a long time. Help yourself,” he said, and watched in silent bemusement as Jason ate the whole sandwich, half of Sarah’s, two large helpings of chips, and two bananas. Sarah said nothing, well used to Jason’s ability to do away with large quantities of food.

“Does he always eat like that?” James asked after Jason had gone outside. Sarah chuckled.

“No, most of the time he eats even more,” she said. James shook his head.

“I never thought anyone could surpass House as a chowhound, but maybe those rumors about young guys having hollow legs really is a medical fact,” he said. He looked at his cup. “I feel like I’m hopelessly outclassed.”

“One step at a time,” Sarah said. “Besides, you’re not a growing boy. You start eatin’ like that, we’ll have to roll you around with a big stick.”

James gave a soft laugh and coughed, but it was only a brief episode. “I’ve missed your sense of humor,” he said when he’d recovered.

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “Now how about a rest? Jason took your things upstairs, but if you can crash on the couch instead if you like.”

“I’d like that.” James stood and took his cup and spoon to the sink. “Sarah,” he said, and hesitated. “If . . . if you’re really not up for having me here . . . say so.”

 _Another lost boy_ , Sarah thought. She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. So is Gene,” she said softly. “You’re always welcome in our home.”

“That’s probably the same thing you said to House, and look what happened to him.” There was a strange undertone to his words. “I don’t . . . don’t know if I’m ready for that much change, Sare.”

“Your path isn’t the same as Greg’s.” She rubbed him gently. “Take it one day at a time, love. Now come with me.”

She led him into the living room and settled him on the couch, brought in a small cup of tea and a plate of cookies, made sure he had enough pillows to be comfortable, and handed him the remote. When she passed by ten minutes later he was out cold, snuggled on his side. A cookie was missing, and some of the tea; the tv was on Turner Classic Movies, and the current movie was ‘Back Streets’. Sarah smiled and closed the curtains against the bright day outside, then went upstairs for a nap of her own.

When she woke it was late afternoon; sunlight slanted through the bedroom windows, and the oscillating fan blew warm air around the room. Sarah stretched and tested her leg. Pain was present but nothing she couldn’t handle; she’d healed nicely so far. Slowly she sat up and yawned, got to her feet and went downstairs.

To her pleased surprise she found James and Jason in the kitchen, at work on dinner. “Pat the chicken dry before you put it in the pan,” James said from his perch at the breakfast bar. “That’s it . . . you can season it a bit later, you want to give it a good sear first.” He glanced at Sarah and gave her a half-smile. “One step at a time,” he said, and turned back to his pupil.

Jason made a good job of a first effort; the chicken was a little on the dry side, but everything else—the steamed beans and onions, the rice and salad—were exactly right. “Well done, boys,” Sarah said, and had the delight of seeing both of them soak up her praise. James managed only a few mouthfuls of chicken and rice, but he seemed a bit more relaxed than before, and his rest had done him good; he was less drawn, with some color in his face. Jason had apparently accepted him; his attitude was casual, though he still kept an eye on the older man. Sarah knew he would make up his mind one way or the other on his own time, and it would be better not to say anything.

After everything was cleaned up, she and James sat outside in the back yard. Mandy, who had arrived at the tail end of dinner, worked in the garden with Jason. It was the end of a lovely day, and the low humidity made the breeze even more pleasant.

“What do you plan to do after you leave here?” Sarah asked. She was struck by how much he looked like the young man she remembered from college. And yet it was clear he was older; his dark hair had substantial grey in it, and there were lines in his face.

“California,” he said. “For a while, to see if it works out.”

“A long way to go,” she said gently. He sighed, a quiet sound.

“I have to give it a try.”

Sarah sipped her iced tea. “Where in California?”

“Bay area. I have a colleague there, he’ll let me lease his place for six months. I’ve got resumes into some of the local hospitals. One of them wants me . . .” He went silent. Sarah said nothing, just waited. “Sare, I don’t want to—to practice anymore. I . . . I just don’t.”

“Okay,” she said. James snorted and coughed.

“God, if you knew how much I’ve wanted someone to say that,” he said when he could speak.

“You haven’t said anything to House or he’d tell you the same thing,” Sarah said. James’s smile glimmered in the warm sunlight.

“Yes, that’s true.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while and listened to Jason and Mandy argue over whose turn it was to pick beans. Then James said, “Thanks for this, Sare. I wasn’t sure at first . . . but this is the right place for me to be.”

For the third time that day Sarah felt a lump in her throat. “That it is,” she said, and put her hand on his arm for a moment. “That it is.”  


	15. Chapter 15

_August 4th_

Morning sunlight streams through the window. Greg kicks back in his chair and surveys the group of people huddled around the conference table. He’s called them in on a Saturday because the night before, Chase and Chandler finally figured out the last patient’s diagnosis—PKAN, and within that rare disorder, an even more rare subset—and they need to take on another patient. Two, if they can manage it; while the clinic has begun to break even at last, even pull ahead just a little, extra money would not go amiss.

So there’s a big stack of files in the middle of the table courtesy of McMurphy’s efficiency, and they sort through them one by one. There’s also a box of doughnuts and a pot of coffee, both provided by Chase. So far no one has said much, though about half the doughnuts have disappeared and the coffee is perilously low.

“Got a baby with seizures,” Chandler says.

“Got a kid with a bean up his nose,” Greg says. Chandler shoots him a look but goes on.

“She’s had pneumonia twice in one year. An MRI of her head revealed a complete lack of anything resembling a corpus callosum.”

“Whoa,” Chase says. He looks interested. Singh does too.

“Missing an essential chunk of brain. Has possibilities. We’ll take it,” Greg says, and looks over as someone comes to stand in the doorway.

“This a private party or can anyone join in?” Wilson says.

Fifteen minutes later he sits opposite Greg at the other end of the table. There’s a fresh pot of coffee and somehow, a dozen cherry danish have joined the last of the doughnuts in the box. A neat stack of paper napkins, the sugar bowl and a carton of creamer sit nearby. Wilson munches a chocolate cake doughnut and chats with Chase, which gives Greg a chance to study him. Of course the cancer has taken its inevitable toll. The bones of Wilson’s hands and face press hard against his skin, and he looks worn down—illness has planed away the softer layers until it reached the heartwood, strong as iron. Still, he’s neatly turned out as always, and able to eat. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s something. The fear Greg’s pushed aside subsides just a little.

“So do we take the case?” Chandler wants to know. Greg gives her a glance; she’s practically got tears in her eyes.

“Sure, why not. Widdle bitty baby seizures, always good for a laugh.”

Chandler sends him a look in return, hot with silent resentment. “I’ll be sure to let the parents know you said so,” she says quietly. She sets the file aside and pulls another off the stack, opens it up and flips through it as her expression smoothes out. Before she can speak however, Singh says

“One year old female with fused spine and resulting scoliosis as well as fused ribs and a shortened neck with limited motion. She has a slight heart murmur and some cognitive deficit, though it’s fairly mild.”

“Crab chest,” Greg says. Singh nods. “Spondylocostal disorder of some kind.” He glances at the other man. “You’re thinking maybe Jarcho Levin.”

Singh sits back. “Seems likely.”

“That’s a mutation associated with the DLL3 gene, right?” Wilson says. The room falls silent.

“Why yes it is, James,” Greg says after a moment, and watches Wilson blush.

“I got bored during chemo,” he says. “You can only read so many two year old issues of _People_ before you turn to medical journals out of sheer desperation.”

Chase offers him a smile. “Good use of your time.”

“Yeah yeah, butter up the sick guy,” Greg says. He extends a hand for the file, and Singh obliges. A quick scan tells him what he needs to know. “We could wait for the test, but the size of the chest and the history of repeated bouts of pneumonia are more than enough evidence.” He closes the file. “Tell the parents their kid’s toast in another year or so.”

Chandler glares at him. “It’s their only child,” she says.

“If they’re smart it’ll be the one and only,” Greg says. “Spondylocostal dysostosis disorders are autosomal recessive. They lucked out in the lottery, so to speak.” He tosses the file at Chandler. “You tell ‘em.” Chandler takes the file. Without another word she gets to her feet and stalks to the door, goes out with shoulders squared and ass cheeks clenched. “Cameron used to do the same thing when she was het up too, only she was a lot cuter,” he says.

“Ever the charmer,” Wilson murmurs, and Chase rolls his eyes. Greg squints at the latter.

“How many clinic hours do you have again—that’s right, twelve. No wait, sixteen.”

“Eight,” Chase says dryly. “If we were back at PPTH that threat might be a little more effective.” He opens a file. “Seven-year old male with cleft palate—“

“Boring,” Greg says.

“—and deformed tongue,” Chase continues, unperturbed. “There are a couple of teeth missing on the lower jaw.”

“Children’s teeth do fall out naturally,” Greg points out. “Otherwise the tooth fairy would be unemployed and living in a box under the overpass.”

“They’ve been missing since he started teething, according to the mother,” Chase says. “They weren’t there to begin with.”

“Any bumps or pits on the red part of the lower lip?”

Chase consults the file. “Yup.”

“It’s Van der Woude.”

“Yeah, but something else is going on,” Chase says. “There’s some cognitive delays, and a few mild abnormalities in the wrist and ankle joints that aren’t accounted for by the syndrome.”

Greg holds out his hand for the file. He peruses it, nods. “Okay. We’ll take this one. That tops us off.” He waves a hand at Chase and Singh. “Shoo.”

Once they’re gone Wilson says “That was a nice little stroll down memory lane.” He doesn’t sound pleased or pissed off, just stating a fact. For some reason that rubs Greg the wrong way.

“This isn’t PPTH,” he says with something of a snap. Wilson looks surprised.

“I didn’t say it was,” he says in a mild tone. “But I was going to suggest we catch up over lunch.”

“I don’t use ketchup over my lunch or any other meal.”

“Ah, that rapier wit of yours.” Wilson finishes off his coffee and gets to his feet. “Sarah says Lou’s is a good bet. If you want to join me, I’ll be there a little after noon.” He gives Greg a salute—just a tap of the fingers to his forehead—and leaves the room. His walk is a bit slower, more deliberate than it used to be; Greg watches him go and thinks maybe, just maybe, he’ll show up at Lou’s for lunch. He digs in his pocket for his phone.

“Okay,” Roz says. “Lunch at Poppi’s would be nice.” There’s a small silence. “We’re meeting Doctor Wilson there, aren’t we?”

“It’ll be his treat,” Greg says. Roz sighs softly.

“Yeah, okay. See you shortly.”

He sits there for a while after the call ends. “Bring it on,” he says at last in the silence. “Let’s see what happens.”

 

 

Roz pulled into a parking spot down the street from Poppi’s. She let the truck idle and listened to her favorite mix CD, the music a source of comfort, however distant. Greg would laugh at her for it, but she didn’t care. Anything that would get her through the next hour or so was fine by her, and ‘anything’ included controlled substances if they were to be had.

She took a deep breath, turned off the engine and got out. She’d debated on whether or not to change out of her jumpsuit, but decided against it. She was a blue collar worker, after all. Besides, she was damn proud of the way she made a living, even if it didn’t call for twelve years of college. On that thought she lifted her chin and strode into Poppi’s place. The interior was busy—it always did a good business at lunchtime on the weekends. Roz scanned the booths and saw Greg at the back; he faced her, with Doctor Wilson seated across from him. Roz moved toward them, reluctant but determined to deal with the situation. There was no point in avoidance; better to get it over with and get through the next few weeks as well as she could.

“You showed up,” Greg said as she reached the booth. Roz raised her brows.

“Is there some reason why I wouldn’t?” she said, and turned to Doctor Wilson. He lifted his gaze to hers. Shock took her breath, but only for a moment. She held out her hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, and gave it a double meaning. After a moment Wilson nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, and took her hand in his. She felt him tremble a little and understood he was as apprehensive as she was, perhaps more so. The realization eased her own dread. She returned his smile and then let go gently to sit next to Greg.

“Have you ordered yet?” she asked. Wilson shook his head.

“We wanted to wait for you,” he said quietly. “I understand your grandfather owns this place.”

Roz nodded. “Poppi makes a great _minestrone_ ,” she said. “It’s not spicy, and he’ll put in some pasta if you want something with a little more substance to it.”

“That sounds good.” Wilson smiled at her again. _He’s different_ , Roz thought. It was as if the bad fire that had driven him was gone, or at least well-banked. She couldn’t say he was at peace, but he’d come to a kind of terms with something deep inside himself, that much seemed clear.

“Meatball sandwich and fries for me,” Greg said. “The sloppier the better. And a Coke.”

“Okay,” Roz said. “I’ll go tell Poppi, it’ll save Marge a few steps since she’s busy.” She leaned in and kissed Greg’s cheek, felt rather than heard his little intake of breath, and added a second quick buss before she got up and went to the counter.

“ _Minestrone_ , eh? Well, you know where it is,” Poppi said when she delivered the order. “You heat that up and I’ll do the sandwiches and fries.”

Roz went to the fridge and found the meatballs, then took the soup container out of the freezer. In colder weather they had a pot on the range all day, but not in late August. She opened the tub and put the soup in the pot. “Just so you know, I’m gonna add some _tortellinis_.”

“Bah,” Poppi grumbled, “ruining a perfectly good _minestrone_ that way.” He dumped a tub of hand-cut potatoes in the fryer basket and popped them into the hot oil. “Your husband’s friend, he looks like someone left him in the sun to dry too long.”

“He’s been very sick,” Roz said. She handed Poppi the meatballs. “Greg wants it with lots of sauce.”

“Since when does he have red gravy on a meatball sandwich?” Poppi counted five meatballs and put them in the skillet on the grill. “What about you?”

“ _Antipasto_ ,” Roz said. “I have to go back to work in an hour.”

“All right, it’ll be ready in a few minutes. Now find your husband and stay by him,” Poppi said. “You can’t do that if you’re in here with me.”

Roz paused. Without another word she left the kitchen. She felt a momentary anxiety, then remembered what Hazel had told her: “Be honest, and remember Greg loves you.” They were plain guidelines, but she had a feeling they’d work.

“I thought you got lost,” Greg said when she resumed her seat.

“Poppi needs someone in the kitchen to help out,” she said, and offered Wilson a slight smile. “I’m used to doing that. Old habits die hard.”

“Huh,” Greg said, but he fell silent as Marge bustled up to the booth with their drinks.

“So,” Wilson said after she left, “how’s life treating you both?”

 “Better than you, apparently,” Greg said, but there was a kind of rough compassion in the words that belied their harshness. Wilson chuckled and coughed. Roz watched him struggle with it and felt Greg tense beside her.

“Well, that’s true enough,” Wilson said when he could speak. “I’m at least three steps away from death’s door now though, which beats standing on the threshold looking into the abyss.” He said it with genuine humor, and Roz felt an impulse of sympathy for him.

Lunch arrived at that point. They made small talk while Marge handed out the food—at least Greg and Wilson did. Roz ate melon and _prosciutto_ and listened to them. The casual back and forth had an easy, familiar rhythm to it; still, she sensed they were careful to pull their punches with each other to some extent. Greg’s mood had a brittleness to it she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Wilson was harder to read because she didn’t know him and she still felt wary, but he seemed cautious too.

“So, gonna fill me in on all the latest gossip in PPTH Diagnostics?” Greg said. Wilson shook his head.

“Nothing to tell. The department’s doing all right.”

“I’m crushed.” Greg sipped his drink. “No flaming affairs? No drug-filled rampages? How disappointing.”

“One of the janitors overflowed a toilet,” Wilson offered. Greg rolled his eyes.

“Wow, high strangeness at the house of spittle.”

“Things haven’t been the same since you left,” Wilson said. It was not an accusation; Roz thought maybe a year ago it would have been. “Same old same old.”

Greg took a large, messy bite of his sandwich and chewed it noisily, his gaze fastened on Wilson. The other man ignored him and took a spoonful of soup. He tasted it and his expression brightened. “This is delicious,” he said to Roz.

“Thanks. Poppi makes good soup,” she said, pleased despite her efforts not to react.

“Do you think . . .” Wilson hesitated. “Could I get the recipe?”

“Of course. I’ll write it down for you,” she said.

“Bonding over soup. That’s a new way to pick up women,” Greg said. There was a little silence. Roz said nothing. She heard Hazel’s calm voice in her head: _Greg uses provocation as a way to see what people are really thinking. When he does it with you, step back if you can and give him the truth without giving in to your emotions, if you can. Don’t hide them, just don’t let them cloud your objectivity if possible. He’ll usually back down once he knows your motivation._

“I think your wife is already spoken for,” Wilson said, and offered Roz a slight smile that reached his dark eyes. She felt something unclench just a little deep in her belly.

“Yeah, I am.” She put down her drink, reached out for Greg’s hand and took it. After a moment his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and comforting. “Completely.”

Wilson nodded. “I’ve never had _minestrone_ with _tortellinis_ in it,” he said. “Does your grandfather make his own pasta?”

Roz accepted his change of subject. “As a matter of fact, he does—most of the time anyway.”

She found herself drawn into a fairly extensive discussion of Italian cooking. It was plain Wilson had considerable experience with cooking, and moreover, he enjoyed it.

“Yeah, he’s not bad in the kitchen. He even does the dishes as he goes along,” was Greg’s contribution.

“I hate loading dishwashers,” Wilson said dryly. Roz chuckled.

“Something we have in common,” she said, and gave Greg’s hand a squeeze.

“Two anal-retentives in the kitchen. Now _there’s_ an inducement to eat out,” he said, but Roz felt him relax a bit more.

“Maybe I could make dinner for you some evening,” Wilson said. Roz glanced at Greg, who looked away. _He’s left it up to me,_ she thought, and hid a smile.

“That would be great,” she said. “Would you like to meet my grandfather? He’d be happy to hear you enjoyed the soup.”

Poppi was at work on pizza dough when they came back to see him. Roz’s heart swelled with affection at the familiar sight. “My grandfather, Lou,” she said quietly. “Poppi, this is Doctor James Wilson.”

“You already know me,” Greg said. Poppi gave him a sidelong look; his dark eyes twinkled.

“All too well,” he said, and wiped his hand on his apron before he offered it to Wilson. The younger man took it without hesitation.

“Nice to meet you, sir. The soup was fantastic. I’d love your recipe.”

Poppi nodded. “Easier if I show you. You think you’re up for spending an evening back here next week? But only if you call me Lou.”

Wilson blinked. “I—I’d love it,” he said, obviously surprised and pleased with it. “Thanks, that’s very generous.”

Roz gave Poppi a warning glance. He returned it with an innocent smile. Greg looked away. “Time we got going,” he said in a loud voice. “Assassinations to carry out, buildings to blow up—you know, all in a day’s work.”

Wilson chuckled and coughed. “See you at Sarah’s,” he said finally, and took his leave of them. Roz watched him walk to his car and thought, _he’s so lonely._ And then, _no . . . he’s alone. There’s a difference._

“Let’s take the afternoon off,” Greg said. Roz glanced at him, found his vivid gaze focused on her. She thought of the work she had scheduled for that afternoon; Kyle would be furious.

“Okay,” she said. Greg’s blue eyes widened a little.

“Really?” he said in genuine surprise. Roz laughed and leaned in to kiss him.

“Let’s see,” she said, and spoke so that her lips brushed his. “Work in a hot dirty attic or tear up the sheets making love to my man . . . hmm, tough choice.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not,” she whispered.

“Hah,” Greg said, but his lips quirked up a bit. “Remind me to invite more old friends over for lunch, if this is the result.”

“Fine by me.” She gave him another kiss, this one light, tender. When it was over Greg brought his hand to her face. His lean fingers traced the curve of her cheek, lingered for a moment. Then he turned away and headed for his car. Roz watched him go and gave a quiet sigh. _One day down, a bunch more to go_ , she thought, and was glad to find only a slight echo of the fear she’d felt that morning. _It isn’t over, but it isn’t a disaster either. Here’s hoping things will stay that way._


	16. Chapter 16

_August 8th_

“I need you and Dad to come into the office.”

Sarah put the lid on the quart jar, set the ring in place and tightened it. She glanced at Jason as she set the jar in the canner. He stood in the doorway with a book in hand; his expression was one of profound disquiet, if not outright distress. “Are you all right?” she asked, and knew her voice was a little too sharp. Jason made an impatient gesture.

“’mfine, I’m not sick or—or anything. I just need you and Dad.”

Sarah put the lid on the canner, set the timer and went to him. “Okay,” she said, and led him to the living room where Gene watched a rerun of the previous evening’s ball game. “Jason says he needs us,” she said quietly. Without hesitation Gene shut off the tv, followed them into the office and closed the door behind him, though they were the only people in the house at the moment. To Sarah’s surprise she found the Skype connection up on her computer. Someone looked back at her—an old woman, her wrinkled features surrounded by a cloud of carefully arranged white curls. An attendant bustled around in the background as she remade a bed.

“Okay, Mrs. Meadows,” Jason said. “I brought in my Mom and Dad.” He turned to them. “This is Penny Moyer. She was John Mattheson’s fiancee during the war. He was the pilot who wrote the letters House gave me.”

“Hello,” the woman said with a slight smile. “Nice to meet you at last. You have a special young man here.”

“Thank you, we think so too. Nice to meet you as well, ma’am,” Sarah said as Gene went over to his side and rolled his chair over next to Sarah’s. “I’m Doctor Sarah Goldman, and this is my husband, Doctor Eugene Goldman.” She paused. “You’ll forgive me if I ask you what this is about.”

“I’ll let Jason fill you in,” Mrs. Thompson said. Gene looked at Jason, who stood by the door.

“All right,” he said, and reached out to bring Jason to him, though only with a gentle hand on his arm. Jason came to stand next to them with some reluctance. “Go ahead, son.”

Jason looked down and fidgeted with the book. “I’ve been working on those letters,” he said, his words hesitant. “And then someone put this book on my—my library card . . .” He fell silent.

“It’s okay,” Gene said. It was the tone he used with his new patients, the ones who needed more reassurance during initial visits: a tone of infinite comfort and patience without condescension. “What’s going on?”

“I . . .” Jason closed his eyes for a moment. “I found out what—what happened to the pilot. In the letters. I mean—not in the letters—“

“Jay,” Sarah said softly. “Just tell us, it’s all right.”

“No it isn’t!” Jason said. He sounded like he was going to cry. “It’s not all right! He—they—“ He put the book on the desk and wrapped his arms around himself. “I wrote to Mrs. Thompson—she married someone else when he didn’t come back . . .” He swallowed. “She said . . . she found out he was a prisoner and the people who held him, they—they—they executed him.”

Sarah glanced at Gene. He returned her look, then spoke to Mrs. Thompson with sorrow in his expression. “I’m so sorry,” he said. Mrs. Thompson nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, and Sarah heard the old grief in her voice. “Go on, Jason. You have to tell them what else you found out.”

Jason trembled, Sarah could see it. He took a deep breath. “The officers who ran the prisoner-of-war camp . . . they . . . they—“ He stopped. “They killed some of the prisoners and then they—they ate parts of them,” he finished, the words rushed. “She said he--John was one of them—one they—“

Sarah didn’t say anything at first; shock was followed by revulsion, and deep sadness. “You’re sure about this, ma’am?” she asked after a moment. Mrs. Thompson nodded.

“Yes. I received information from the Veterans Administration about ten years ago after decades of withholding it, but for reasons you can probably understand we kept that knowledge in the family. When Jason contacted me, he proved to be . . . quite persistent.” The older woman sighed. “You have my deepest and most sincere apologies for telling him about John before I spoke with you first.”

Sarah glanced at Gene, though she already knew how he felt about it. He nodded, his gaze dark with sorrow. “It’s all right, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Thompson. “We understand how the situation came about. Jason can be pretty single-minded in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” Jason said. He was close to tears. “I just wanted to _know_. I wanted to solve the puzzle! But I didn’t think it would be something like this!”

“Jay . . .” Gene said gently.

“ _Why?_ ” Jay said. His voice broke. “Why would they do that? Why—how could they do something so . . .”

“Humans are capable of doing truly terrible things to each other,” Sarah said after a few moments. “Everyone in this room knows that all too well.” She resisted the urge to hug Jason to her; he would seek comfort in his own time and way, not hers.

“This is different!”

“No it isn’t,” Gene said. He sounded firm, though his words held great compassion. “We’ll discuss it later.” He faced Mrs. Thompson once more. “Ma’am, we appreciate your willingness to talk about this with us. I’m truly sorry if this caused you more pain.”

“Thank you for your understanding. Talking about John and our time together is worth it despite any pain it causes.” Mrs. Thompson offered a warm smile. “His end doesn’t define his entire life, not in the least. Anyway, you needn’t worry. Jason’s been a delight, and what happened is entirely my fault. I’m happy to answer any further questions he might have, with your permission.” She paused. “I do have one request.”

Sarah knew what it would be. “We’d love to have you talk with Jason about John,” she said softly. “And we’ll make sure the letters are returned to you immediately.”

Mrs. Thompson nodded. Her eyes glinted with tears. “I thought I’d lost them forever,” she said. “I searched every drawer in that desk before the sale and when nothing turned up . . .” She was silent a moment. “Thank you.”

After the call was ended, Gene had Jason bring over the smaller chair and put it in between his and Sarah’s. Jason sat down with reluctance, but he took Sarah’s hand in his and held it tight.

“I’m sorry if I did something really bad,” he said in a small voice tight with dread. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“You did nothing wrong, son,” Gene said quietly. “There’s no reason to discipline you, your mother and I think Mrs. Thompson’s pain is enough of a lesson here. You’ve handled this well, aside from some impulsiveness.” He rested his hand on Jason’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “But we do need to talk about what you found out.”

Jason hung his head. “I wish I’d never learned anything about what happened to him.” The bitterness and pain in his words made Sarah’s heart ache.

“It’s natural to feel that way,” Gene said. “The problem is, terrible things happen all the time and you can’t avoid them or wish them away.”

Sarah rubbed her thumb over Jason’s knuckles, a little caress she knew he liked. “Doctors face terrible things on a regular basis,” she said softly.

“We’ve had bad things happen to us and we haven’t even talked about them,” Jason said. That brought Sarah up short. She looked at Gene, at a loss for what to say. They’d discussed family therapy, but with all of them in individual counseling, they’d set the idea aside for the time being. _We chickened out,_ she thought. _This whole thing brought up old pain and memories for both Gene and me, and we didn’t do what we should have for Jason._

“You’re right,” Gene said after a moment. “What do you think we should do?”

“We should ask Doctor Morrow if we can see her as—as a family,” Jason said. He stared at the floor, quite plainly afraid of rejection or ridicule. Again Sarah looked at Gene. He nodded.

“That’s an excellent idea, Jason,” she said. “Let’s call Doctor Morrow in the morning and see if she can take us on.” Jason nodded but didn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” she went on. That made him lift his head.

“Why?”

“I didn’t take responsibility for getting us the help we needed after what happened at the cabin.” Now it was her turn to stare at the floor.

“You’re not the only one,” Gene said. He slipped his arm around Jason’s hunched shoulders and eased him close. “I’m sorry too, son.”

They sat there for a while in the quiet. “Do you think about it?” Jason said finally. “About what happened?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. She put her arm around Jason and touched Gene’s hand. His fingers clasped hers.

“Me too,” Jason said. “When Mrs. Thompson—“ He stopped.

“Go on,” Sarah said. Jason shook his head and said nothing. “When she told you what happened to John . . . it gave you nightmares or flashbacks or both, didn’t it? And not just to the cabin.”

Jason shivered but remained silent. Gene rubbed his back slow and gentle. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said softly. “I have those too, and so does your mother. It’s how your mind copes with the memories. But you still need help to understand what’s going on, to sort it out, and that’s why we’re apologizing to you. We didn’t get you and ourselves the help we needed.”

Jason didn’t speak for a long time. Then he said very quietly, “I accept your apologies.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, and blinked back tears.

“Thanks,” Gene said, and leaned over to kiss the top of Jason’s head. The boy rested his cheek against Gene’s shoulder. He gave a little sigh.

Dinner that night was quiet. Wilson cooked a simple meal, burgers with home fries and a salad. He didn’t push anyone to talk; he’d given them one quick look when they emerged from the office, and said nothing. It wasn’t until later, when Jason and Gene had gone to bed, that he spoke to Sarah. “Are you all right?”

Sarah gave him a quick look. His expression was a familiar one, concern and sympathy in his dark eyes. “Not sure yet,” she admitted.

“Anything I can do to help?” He got up and went to the fire, stirred the embers and put another log on them. It was a chilly evening; Sarah held out her hands for a moment and savored the wave of warmth his efforts created.

“No,” she said, “it’s something we’ll have to work out as we go along. But thanks for asking.”

“Of course I asked.” He sat down slowly. “You’ve gone through a lot this past year.”

“So have you,” she said. Wilson nodded.

“Nothing so constant as change,” he said. “If I may ask, what do you plan to do?”

Sarah thought of the little room in the church Pastor Ron had given her for her practice. It was ready, fresh and clean with new paint and carpet, some second-hand furniture and one of her guitars at hand. “Get some help for my family and me before I do anything else,” she said, and sat back with a quiet sigh.


	17. Chapter 17

"I'd like to talk with you."

Greg looks up from his video game to find Sarah in his doorway.He'd expected Wilson to show up first; the man hasn't been over to visit since he crashed the ddx.

"Well, come on in and make yourself at home. _Mi_ office _es su_ office," he says in a mild tone. Sarah enters and perches on the edge of the chair. Uh-oh, this isn't good. Her body language, the look in those grey-green eyes, all warn him she's deeply upset--probably with him. His gut tightens at the thought. It's pretty rare for her to get mad, but when she does it's not pleasant.

It's all the more disconcerting when she says quietly, "The letters you gave Jason  . . . did you know? About the pilot, what happened to him?"

Ah--so the secret's been found out at last. Took the kid long enough. Greg sits back and regards Sarah with a defiant stare. "Yeah." He waits for her to unleash her wrath. Instead she looks down at her hands.

"You knew how he died, and you also knew Jason would follow the puzzle until he got the answer."

"Wasn't sure he would," he says. "Wanted to see what he would do."

"Do you understand what that means for him?" she said after a little silence.

"Whether we're eaten by humans or by worms, it's all the same in the end," he says, and hopes against hope she'll appreciate the joke. She usually does . . . but not this time.

"I'm not talking about the process," she says, still in that quiet tone that makes him tense with apprehension. "Jason was terribly upset by what he found out. He's been having flashbacks and nightmares over it."

"When you look for answers, you'd better expect the unexpected," he says sharply. "If the kid's gonna do the work, he has to learn."

"I'm aware of that," Sarah says with equal sharpness. "I'm asking you to remember his history."

"If he can't handle it he has no business going into medicine and diagnostics." Greg glares at her. “Anyway, you always did love him best.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, quite clearly exasperated. “I love you both as you well know, and there are no favorites here. Stop being a brat and listen to what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying?” He can’t resist a poke at her.

“That for the time being, you pull your punches a bit. Not for good, just for now.”

Greg leans back. “Why? To make up for your bad parenting?”

Sarah sighs softly. “I take full responsibility for my bad judgment in taking on my own issues first,” she says quietly. “We’re going to family therapy sessions for the forseeable future. It’s gonna bring up a lot of bad stuff for all of us, but especially for Jay.”

“Either the kid can handle it or he can’t,” he says, just to say it.

“Don’t be a prick,” his foster mom says. Her tone is serious but she smiles just a little for the first time since her arrival, and Greg feels the tension deep inside him relax a bit. “I’m not asking you to put him in the weenie league.”

He considers her request. “Nope,” he says, to see what she’ll do. Her smile fades.

“Okay then,” she says, and stands up.

“That’s it?” He’s disappointed by this easy victory.

“I won’t allow Jason to work with you,” she says, and goes to the door. Greg stares at her in genuine shock.

“Whaaa—are you _nuts_?” he splutters. “You can’t stop me!”

Sarah turns at the doorway. She is calm, her voice even. “Yes, I can. I’ll do it however I have to. Jason needs protection and as his mother, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“You’re not his real mother,” Greg says. “You’re not—“ He stops, but she hears the end of the sentence anyway and flinches. He wishes he could recall his words, but they’re said now, no bringing them back.

“Technically you’re right on both counts,” she says. There’s no overt emotion in her voice, but he knows he’s just hurt her deeply. “But otherwise you couldn’t be more wrong. Jason is my son in every way that matters to me, and—and so are you.” That little break tells him she means it. “But I’ll do what I have to, to make sure he’s safe.” And she walks away, through the front reception area, head down. He watches her go, shock compounded by dread and if he’s truthful, annoyance too.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he says under his breath, and calls her cell phone. “It’s bad manners to walk out before the conversation’s finished. Call me back,” he snaps when it goes to voicemail. A few minutes later his phone rings. “Knew you’d see it my way,” he says when he picks up.

“Um . . . well, okay,” Wilson says. He sounds amused.

“Oh, it’s you.” Greg puts a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

“Wow, nice to be loved,” Wilson says. “What happened to you?”

Greg knows he could easily get out of this conversation with a trivial insult or two, but Sarah and Wilson are old friends and even better, one-time lovers. There might be a way to make an end run around this problem if he makes the right play. “My mommy doesn’t love me,” he says.

“I’m sure Blythe would disagree.”

“Not her. My other mother.”

Wilson’s silent for a moment. “Interesting. I’ll probably regret asking this, but what happened?”

“She’s all mama grizzly over her cub freaking out,” Greg says. There’s an element of truth to that statement, though mostly it’s a gross exaggeration. Sarah has actually been fairly reasonable, he acknowledges it to himself if not to her. But he doesn’t feel like he needs to be reasonable back. He does things his own way and in his own time, and no one messes with that if he can help it.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Wilson says. “She always has been protective of the people she cares about.”

“What about me?” he says. “She’d probably lose me as her oldest and best chitlin’ before she’d allow the kid to feel even the tiniest pain in his fundament.” He expects a pithy comment on Sarah’s foibles, one of Wilson’s own tales of his time with her, or at least a lecture.

“You need to talk to her about this,” Wilson says, and falls silent. Greg waits, but nothing more is forthcoming.

“Fat lot of good you are,” he says finally.

“If you’re trying to get the better of a worried mom, you can do it with someone else,” Wilson says. There’s no heat in the words, but it’s plain he means them.

“Fine. Is there some point to this call besides a demonstration of your uselessness?” Greg snaps.

“I was going to ask if you’re up for some lunch, but far be it from me to crash your pity party,” Wilson says, dry as only he can be.

“Hmm . . . you cooking?”

“I thought I’d bring in sandwiches.”

“Huh,” Greg says. “I expect nothing less than vichysoisse and roast boar with black truffle sauce.”

“Both your mothers would tell you there’s a good-sized difference between your expectations and what you actually end up with.” Wilson chuckles and coughs. “Dammit.”

“Stop angling for sympathy,” Greg tells him. “So why aren’t you here already?”

Another soft little laugh. “On my way.”

Greg hangs up and sits back. The shock has faded now, but he still feels tense, anxious.

“What’s up?” McMurphy pauses at the doorway, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and lets his hand drift down toward his crotch. His second-in-command tilts her head.

“Gee, can I watch?” she asks in a tone guaranteed to emasculate the hardest wood.

Only if you pay me first. I’m so dirty,” he whispers.

“You still owe _me_ for five pounds of coffee and a week’s worth of doughnuts,” she points out.

“Charitable contribution?”

“Only if you’re sponsored by UNICEF.” McMurphy moves off.

“You just killed a dozen starving kids with your disgusting cynicism!” he yells after her.

“If you finish what you just started you’ll waste thousands of potential babies. Life begins at ejaculation!” is her reply. Greg snorts in amusement and sips his coffee. He glances at the test results Chase brought in earlier, but for once this particular puzzle doesn’t hold his interest, at least not at the moment. With a soft groan he heaves himself out of his chair, stands and stretches, then heads off into the kitchen. If he still knows Wilson’s basic nature, there will be more than just sandwiches for lunch.

He’s just begun to rummage in the fridge for the beer he keeps hidden at the back when James walks in, a cardboard box cradled in his arms. “Roast kitten? Excellent,” Greg says.

“I don’t think your cat would appreciate that kind of talk,” Wilson says, and puts the box on the counter. Greg leans over to inspect the offerings.

“Italian hoagies,” he says, impressed.  

“We aim to please,” Wilson says. “Got plates?”

They sit in the little breakfast nook that’s become the unofficial break room, and munch chips and potato salad along with the sandwiches. “So you won’t stand with me against the mindless tyranny of a foster mom. Nice way to stand up for a friend,” Greg says around a mouthful of ham and salami.

“She’s got a point,” Wilson says quietly.

“She’s being a pain,” Greg growls.

“I’d say that’s you deflecting.” Wilson sips his iced tea. “Maybe if you told me what you and Sare talked about—“

“Hah,” Greg says, and takes a huge bite of his sandwich.

“Nice avoidance technique. Heimlich would be proud.” Wilson sits back a little. He looks tired, his thin features drawn. Greg’s anxiety returns, this time for a different reason. “It’ll only last so long, though. Just so you know.” Greg opens his mouth and displays a wad of masticated lunch meat and bread. Wilson laughs and coughs, but when he catches his breath he smiles. “God help me, I’ve missed that. Missed you,” he says. The simplicity of the words, the honest emotion behind them, is disturbing and welcome at the same time. Something inside Greg pulls a door shut at this knowledge; he’s had enough emotional upheavals for one day.

“Of course you have,” he says and makes his tone extra flippant, just for pure provocation. All Wilson does is shake his head a little.

“Missed that too,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Call her again. She can be stubborn but she’ll listen to a well-reasoned argument.” He takes his jacket—it’s a warm day, but even so he wears a light hoodie—and leaves the kitchen. It is as un-Wilson-like an exit as ever Greg has seen. He watches the other man move slowly to the picnic table at the edge of the parking spaces. After a few moments he picks up the phone and calls the Goldmans landline.

“Hello, Goldman residence,” Jason says. Greg winces just a little.

“Thought you were in school,” he says with false amiability.

“Half day.” Then, “You knew, didn’t you?”

He won’t insult the kid with a pretense. “Yeah, I knew.”

“ _Why?_ ” Jason says it softly, but the intensity of the question is just the same as if he’s shouted it.

“Why ask why, junior,” Greg says with a casualness he doesn’t really feel. “Humans have been eating long pig since the dawn of time. That shouldn’t shock you ever again. A better response is to ask why they do it.”

Jason is silent for a while. “Why do they do it?”

“Good question,” Greg says. “Mostly because they’re batshit crazy. Some of it’s probably that old belief about taking on a particularly strong warrior’s spirit by physically ingesting some of him or her. And there’s a little contempt mixed in there, aimed at that same warrior’s defeat.”

He can feel the kid work to wrap his mind around all of this. “Do the Japanese warriors have a tradition of doing that kind of thing?” he says finally.

“What am I, an encyclopedia? Find out for yourself. Lemme talk to your mom.” Without another word Jason puts the phone down. A few moments later Sarah says

“Yes?”

“Point taken,” Greg says, to his own surprise. Sarah doesn’t reply at first.

“Okay, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I’m makin’ this up as we go along.”

“That’s fine for you, Indy,” she says with regrettable sarcasm.

“What do you want me to say? ‘Gee _Mom_ , I’ll send you every single word I’ll ever speak to the kid a month in advance to make sure he doesn’t get his knickers in a twist’. Not gonna happen.”

“Gregory.” The warning in her tone is plain. “Stop acting like I’m being unreasonable about this. I don’t want to vet everything you say and do. What I want is for _you_ to remember you’re dealing with someone who is vulnerable and struggling with a lot of conflicting emotions.” _That makes two of us._ Greg shoves the thought away. “I know that applies to you too.” Her voice is gentle. His anxiety fades a bit. Aloud he says,

“And . . .”

“Stop it.” Now she’s aggravated. “I don’t know why you think you have to push this till it’s broke. I love you even when you’re acting like a complete ass, okay? This is not me trying to make you into someone else or whatever the hell your anxiety has you thinking.” That hits right on target; she knows him too well. He says nothing. “Uh huh. Thought so. Gregory House, your last name should be Goldman because you are my oldest boy in every way that counts with me, do you understand?”

“Fantastic. That means I’ll inherit everything when you and Gunney kick off,” he says.

“Of course,” she says sweetly. “Considering you’re about ten years older than either one of us, that’s a sure bet sweetie.”

“See, you do love the kid best. He’ll get it all, not me.”

“Oh my god,” Sarah groans, and he gives an evil laugh.

“Mwahahahahaaaaaa! Not so happy to claim me now!”

“You know, I have some sympathy for Blythe every now and then,” Sarah says with a sigh. “I’d like you to come over and talk with me about this.”

“No can do,” he says.

“We need to talk.”

“Thought that’s what we were doing right now.”

“I want to talk face to face.” She sounds stubborn now.

“Oh, _balls_ ,” he grouses. “You had your chance earlier and you walked the hell out the door. Now you want to come back and do it all over again just to score points? Forget it.”

“I’m an analyst. I need to see body language and other scientific-like stuff.”

“You just want to ogle my fine, fine form.”

“Only if your name is Gene Goldman,” Sarah says, but he can hear the smile in her words. “Anyway, that’s Roz’s job. I’ll see you shortly.”

“Yippee,” he says, and hangs up. After a moment he gets to his feet, picks up what’s left of his sandwich and Wilson’s plate, and heads off to the picnic table.

It’s a nice day; cool and sunny, with white clouds moving in a deep blue sky. Wilson sits at the table, hands folded on the rough wood. It strikes Greg that he’s never seen his friend so still before. Always there’s been some kind of inner emotional turmoil or agitation; now there’s . . . not peacefulness exactly, but something like it; ‘acceptance’ comes the closest to what he senses. In silence he sets Wilson’s plate in front of him and takes a seat on the opposite side. “So what’s the plan?”

Wilson looks at his food but doesn’t touch it. “Nothing comes to mind.” The amusement is back. “She’s coming over, isn’t she?”

“You two planned this in advance,” Greg says, though he doesn’t mean it. Wilson shakes his head.

“No.”

“You’re saying you have no part in this plot to destroy my free will. Typical.”

Wilson gives him a glimmer of a smile. “Yes. And no.”

Greg shakes his head. “I don’t buy it.”

Wilson doesn’t answer him right away. “When I was fighting for my life in that damn hospital bed, it occurred to me there were better things to do than sit around worrying about someone else’s actions and their consequences,” he says at last. It’s a simple statement and has the ring of truth. “What you and Sarah decide has nothing to do with me. Let’s keep it that way.”

Greg stares at Wilson, who looks back at him with a steady gaze. “You freak of nature,” he says finally, and Wilson chuckles softly.

“Well that’s something, anyway.” He looks down at his plate, pushes it away. “You can have the rest.”

Greg’s finished off the heel of the sandwich when Minnie Lou pulls in beside them. Sarah gets out and comes over. Greg watches her. She doesn’t look mad or even upset, and when she sits down it’s next to him. Her hand comes to rest on his arm, that familiar light touch.

“Let’s talk,” she says softly, and offers him a smile that reaches her eyes. Greg glances at Wilson, who gives him a little nod, gets to his feet.

“See you later,” he says, and moves to his car. As he backs out of the parking space Greg says under his breath,

“Not acceptance . . . grace.”

Sarah watches Wilson leave. “Yes,” she says, and gives him a gentle caress. It’s then he knows for sure whatever happens next, it’ll be all right. He lets out a breath, closes his eyes and remembers whatever her faults may be, if he’s found grace of his own it’s down to the woman sitting next to him. On impulse he puts his hand over hers for a moment.

“You tell me when I can start tightening the screws on the kid again,” he says. “Until then I’ll . . . I’ll back off.”

Sarah doesn’t speak for a moment. “Okay,” she says at last, her voice husky. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. “You do love me best.”

Sarah chuckles. “I love you special,” she says, and leans in to kiss his cheek, a light buss that holds a powerful affection. He basks in it, as the last of his tension drains away. In this moment life is good, and that’s enough to go on.


	18. Chapter 18

_August 12th_

James took a seat at the bar—the one he’d sort of come to think of as his over the last week or so. Evidently the bartender had too. The burly guy gave him a slight nod as he wiped the countertop with a rag. “Evenin’. Usual?” he said.

“Make it a Corona Light,” James said. His stomach was a little touchy today, and he knew from plenty of experience that a load of full-weight beer in his belly would result in extensive time spent at worship before porcelain thrones. He’d had enough of that to last him the rest of whatever time remained. A bottle placed in front of him brought him out of his reverie.

“Corona Light,” the bartender said. James put a twenty on the counter.

“More later,” he said, so the guy would know he wasn’t going to nurse a single beer all night long. The bartender nodded again and gave him a slight smile, then left him alone. James took a sip and looked around him. It was a quiet night, though a couple of people occupied booths and someone at the pool table worked on a rack—the bass player in House’s band, James sort of remembered him from previous visits. The jukebox cranked out country; it rarely played anything else, though there were a few eighties hits here and there. He’d never been a big fan of the genre, but at least it made relatively unobtrusive background noise, and for that he was grateful. He’d had enough of silence, the relentless silence of hospital rooms as well as the prison of his own mind, where memories played in an endless loop.

He shivered and downed another slug of beer as the door pushed open and a woman came in. James gave her a quick look—force of habit, one he wasn’t about to give up—and stared in surprise. The woman headed in his direction. When she reached him she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of flowers, a soft clean scent. “Hello love,” she said softly. “How are you?”

“Kris,” he said with genuine pleasure. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Doing better, thanks.”

“I tried to see you in Princeton but your boss said you were on sabbatical. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming up here?” She took the stool next to his and glanced at the bartender as he ambled over to take her order. “Hey Ed. Woodchuck Amber, please.”

“Still gluten-free for all the good it’ll do you,” James said, and took her hand in his. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Still an allopathic medicine snob,” she said with a chuckle, but her gaze held concern. “So does this mean you’re done with everything? What . . . what’s the verdict?”

“Technically? In remission.” He hesitated. “Personally, I think . . . I think it’s finished with me. For a while, anyway. Maybe for good.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Kris said softly as Ed returned with her hard cider. She took it and tapped the bottle gently against his beer. “For luck.”

He smiled at her and wondered for the thousandth time if he should take that final step and ask her over for dinner and something more. They’d come close a few times before his illness; she’d visited him on a regular basis both before and while he was in the hospital. During his battle with chemo and radiation she’d treated him with compassion but no less warmth, even when he’d lost his hair and had a puke bucket as standard equipment at his bedside. If there was ever a test designed to sort out serious intentions from casual interest, cancer was it.

“Hey.” Kris touched his hand. “You went away.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Too much thinking.” He sipped his beer. “It’s a bad habit I’ve gotten into over the last couple of years.”

“Well if you’re going to sit around and ruminate, you could do it much more comfortably at my place,” Kris said. James took a breath. There it was, the very point he’d just worried about. Another thought came hard on the heels of the original—a memory, rather: Nolan in his office at their last session, dark eyes thoughtful as he contemplated his patient.

“House found what he needs,” he’d said. “Comparing your own relationships to his is something of a non sequitur. You have your own life to live. Competition is not in your best interest, or his.”

James tucked the advice away for further study. “Sounds like a good plan to me,” he said, and got to his feet. “Have you had dinner already?”

“Why don’t we stop at the store and pick up a few things?” She took some money out of her purse but James touched her hand. He glanced at the bartender and tapped the twenty on the counter. The guy nodded and went back to filling a pint.

“Don’t worry, it’s covered. Let’s go.”

They spent some time in the little grocery store that served the village. The selection was limited to say the least, but neither one of them minded. They decided on something easy that wouldn’t push his limits: roast chicken, a salad and some rolls, a pre-made apple pie and a pint of vanilla ice cream. “Not exactly inspired, but we can make our own dressing,” Kris said.

They argued in amiable fashion over who would pay for things, then decided to split the cost. It was a short drive after that to Kris’s place--a little house on a one-lane road, surrounded by trees and an open back yard with a fine view of the mountains. It was welcoming and comfortably lived-in, a combination he found common here. “Usually it’s just me in the kitchen,” Kris joked as she set groceries on the counter. “Two people trying to work together in here probably legally constitutes sex.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” James said on a chuckle. Kris looked at him, her blue eyes bright.

“Is it?” she asked quietly. He hesitated.

“Don’t think so,” he said after a moment’s silence, and felt an odd sense of relief when she smiled at him.

They ate dinner on her back porch and watched the sunset send long shadows over the yard. It was peaceful as the wind rustled in the leaves above them, but James heard the approach of winter in the sound and shivered a little. He’d come to dislike the cold and dark even more than previously.

“Are you cold?” Kris asked quietly. “We can go in. I’ll make some coffee to go with dessert.”

“No, it’s nothing.” He drew in a breath, felt the tug of an elusive sadness, a familiar sensation now. “What are we doing?”

“Enjoying each other’s company,” Kris said. Her hand touched his. “At least I am.”

“You’re a good liar.” He took her hand. “I’m poor company , even if you aren’t.” He swallowed. “Maybe I should go . . . I don’t know.” _I don’t want to ruin what we have_ , he thought.

Kris tilted her head to the side a bit and looked at him. “What do you want, James?”

“Good question,” he said. “Wish I had an answer.”

“I’ve got one.” And she leaned over to kiss him. Their lips met, and the coldness melted away.

Her bedroom was as comfortable as the rest of the house, but he didn’t notice until after they’d tumbled into her big bed. It felt right to cup her breasts, to let his thighs lie against the length of hers, to find the heart of her and make her cry out in pleasure, her small hands strong and then gentle on his hips as they moved together. The way she opened to him brought tears to his eyes. No one had ever been this generous; it felt like he’d come home, that corny, trite phrase he’d always scorned as overly sentimental. Now, as he lay in her arms in the soft darkness, he understood what it meant.

“When I think about what I missed/wish I coulda been your girl,’” Kris sang softly. Her voice was clear and true. James turned his head and regarded her with a smile.

“What?”

“Just a song that I’ve been thinking of a lot lately.” She smoothed a lock of hair away from his forehead, then rested her cheek above the scar on his chest. James slipped an arm around her, brought her close. “I’m glad we’re friends,” she said. “It makes a difference.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, and took her hand in his. “I think you’re right.”

They lay together for a long time, and James had started to drift off when Kris said “Where do we go from here?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m . . . I’m leaving for the Bay area in another week or two. I’ll be there until next spring.”

“Ah.” Kris snuggled in next to him. “You mind if I come to visit?”

James blinked. He’d expected an argument, recriminations, a guilt trip. “Well—yes, I’d love to have you come out.”

“Okay.” She kissed him. “We can play it by ear. I know you’re sorting things out right now. If I can help, I’ll be happy to. If not, I’ll just keep you company.”

“That—that could work,” he said. “Would—would you sing me that song you’ve been thinking of?”

Kris smiled at him. “Sure,” she said. He closed his eyes and listened, to slip into sleep on the sound of her gentle voice.

_Dance me around again_

_Hold me like it's never gonna end_

_'Cause finally I've found somebody_

_Who's always been a friend_

_When I think about what I missed_

_Oh, I wish I could've been your girl . . ._

_‘Dance Me Around,’ Buffy St. Marie_


	19. Chapter 19

_August 16th_

It’s a cool and breezy evening—a harbinger of the autumn ahead, the warmth of the last rays of sunlight trumped by a faint nip in the air. It isn’t quite cold enough for a jacket, but Greg’s glad he wears his usual layers. He and Roz walk toward Lou’s. It’s quiet in town, though there are a few people at the grocery and the feed store; everyone else is home now, at supper or in front of the tv after a long day of work. He and his wife are destined for a different experience tonight, however. “This should prove interesting,” he says. Roz glances at him. Her green eyes hold a smile in their depths.

“Poppi says Wilson’s a good cook.” She gives his hand a little squeeze and moves a bit closer, so that he can smell her perfume. She wears dressy casual clothes, a dark green sweater and black slacks, her thick hair arranged in the cap-of-feathers style that softens her strong features and makes her beautiful, in his eyes at least. “We’ll have wine too. I found this fantastic red--Tormaresca, _Bocca de Lupo Aglianico_. It’ll stand up to whatever we get tonight.”

“My wife the boozer,” he says, and she chuckles.

“You’ll be glad when you taste it, it’s delicious.”

He snorts. “I suppose you and Lou sampled it earlier today and you didn’t invite me. Some spouse you are.”

“When you call me up to come over after Sarah brings you cookies at work, I’ll call you to share wine with us,” she replies without hesitation. Greg comes to a halt and looks at her. She stares back; her gaze sparkles with mischief. He feels his heart expand with something suspiciously like love, but of course he won’t give her the satisfaction.

“You mercenary little minx,” he says with grudging respect. For answer she leans up and kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm against his, and she lingers there a while. He doesn’t object at all.

They arrive in due course at Lou’s. The place looks quiet—there are a few people who aren’t associated with the party at the front of the restaurant to enjoy the usual pizza and Coke, but the big gig goes on in the back room. When they walk in a lone voice greets them. “About time you showed up,” Chase says, and hoists a glass of iced tea in their direction with a nod of his head. Greg is ready to utter a scathing retort when the Goldmans come in behind him and Roz—Sarah, Gene and the kid.

“Hey y’all,” Sarah says with a smile. She still uses a cane, but her limp is almost gone now and she’s not in much pain, he can tell. Greg takes a good look at the group. In some way he cannot define they’ve become a family—it’s there, an aura of a bond around them that makes him a little anxious. This touches on too many years of him on the outside as he looks in, and even his time here hasn’t erased that old feeling.

“Should be interesting to see what Lou and James come up with,” Sarah says. As she talks, Roz’s hand tightens on his gently. After a moment he returns the pressure.

“I heard something about _risotto_ earlier this afternoon,” Gene says.

“What’s that?” Jason wants to know. He glances at Greg, then looks away. Sarah puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Let’s find a seat and we’ll tell you,” she says, and gives Greg and Roz a smile. “Will you sit with us?”

There’s just one round table in the room so it’s a bit of a rhetorical question, but he and Roz do end up next to Sarah and Gene and the kid, with Chase across from them. “ _Risotto_ is made with a special rice,” Sarah says. “It’s cooked for a long time with stock. That makes it creamy.”

“So . . . like cream of rice?” the kid wants to know.

“Not as starchy and boring,” Roz says. “You’ll see. Poppi makes excellent _risotto_. Sometimes he puts _porcini_ in it—those are dried mushrooms.” She chuckles at Jason’s dubious expression. “Trust me, it’s good.”

Any answer Jason might have given is forestalled by Wilson’s entrance. He wears a white apron over a white shirt and jeans, and bears a large platter loaded with a stack of small plates, forks, cloth napkins and _antipasto_. He looks like he’s about twenty years old; the loss of weight brings his boyish features into prominence. It’s almost possible to miss the smudges under his eyes, the lines drawn deep in his face here and there. With a flourish he sets the platter on the table. “First course is served,” he says in dramatic fashion, and offers a grin. “Wine’s on the way.”

“They have to strain the seeds out first,” Greg stage-whispers to Roz, who gives him a gimlet stare. The laughter is still there though, and a love so powerful it makes him blink.

“ _Testa di cazzo_ ,” she says, and Sarah laughs while Gene snorts in amusement. Jason looks puzzled.

“What?”

“We’ll tell you when you’re eighteen,” Sarah says. The kid rolls his eyes.

“ _Mom_ ,” he says with manly scorn. “If it’s bad language, I won’t explode.”

That makes everyone laugh. Wilson comes in with the wine and glasses and pauses, brows raised. “Italian wine is amusing?” he wants to know as he hands out the glasses.

“Language lessons,” Sarah says. Wilson looks puzzled but doesn’t comment further. He just pours the wine for everyone but Chase and Jason.

“How about a Coke?” he asks the kid, who nods. “Top up?” he says to Chase, who puts his hand over the top of his glass.

“Too much caffeine this late and I’ll be up all night,” he says with a slight smile. “In med school and at PPTH that was a good thing. Here, not so much.”

Greg watches Roz swirl the wine in her glass. She studies it, then gives Rob a smile. “Yeah. When I’d work a big job I’d drink a lot of coffee to get me through the small hours. Now it just makes me run for the bathroom every five minutes.” She sets down the glass and reaches for a plate.

That seems to be the cue for everyone else to load up on goodies from the _antipasto_ platter. There’s fresh _mozzarella_ and _giardiniera_ , both homemade—Sarah’s kitchen reeked of vinegar, garlic and peppers for days when she made a double batch of the pickled vegetables a couple of weeks ago—hot and sweet _sopressata_ and Genoa salami, _provolone_ and bite-size chunks of sheep’s-milk cheese, pickled hot peppers, olives, melon wrapped in _prosciutto_ , roasted tomatoes . . . and this is just the first course.

Greg munches salami and cheese and samples the wine. It’s a bruiser, but in a good way—lots of silky deep berry-cherry overtones with dark chocolate and tobacco notes, and tannins to coat the mouth and offer an almost minty finish. It’s bold, complex and will stand up to whatever the main course will be, that’s for sure. “We need some of this at home,” he says to Roz. She nods.

“I bought an extra case for us,” she says, and pops an olive in her mouth. For one moment he wishes he was that olive.

“What’s this?” the kid asks. He holds up a skewer loaded with melon and ham.

“Try it,” Gene says. Jason hesitates, then takes a healthy bite. Greg gives him kudos for that approach—he doesn’t nibble around the edges, he takes it all in. The kid’s brown eyes widen.

“’S _good_ ,” he says, and goes for more. Chase grins at him.

“It’s a great day when you discover something new to like,” he says. Greg rolls his eyes.

“You can take the boy out of the seminary . . .” he says as someone enters the room.

“Hey Kris,” Sarah says. The woman takes the chair next to Chase and gives him a quick hug, then offers all of them a warm smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. Greg is about to say that he personally hadn’t expected her at all when he gets a discreet dig in the ribs from his wife just as Wilson comes in. He stops when he sees Kris; then with what to Greg’s discerning eye appears to be determination, he goes to her, bends down and gives her a kiss.

“Well well well,” Greg says softly as the kiss ends. Wilson sends him a look—a familiar _back off_ glare that brings all sorts of memories to the fore. So, the great self-sacrificer isn’t as far along in his healing journey as he’d like everyone to think. Kris doesn’t seem to mind though. She puts a hand to Wilson’s cheek, an unaffected gesture of intimacy that tells Greg all he needs to know about what they’ve been up to.

“I’ll bring you a glass,” Wilson mutters, but he puts his hand over hers for a moment. That’s something new—he’s never been much for PDAs before. With a final warning look at Greg he makes his escape into the back room.

“Congratulations,” Sarah says softly to Kris.

“Thanks.” Kris offers them a smile. “It’s been a great week.”

 _It won’t be so great when he leaves,_ Greg thinks, and again suffers a dig in the ribs from Roz’s sharp elbow as he opens his mouth. For answer he puts an arm around her shoulders and traps her in a hug, holds her against him for a moment. He feels her quiver with silent amusement. “Tit for tat,” he whispers in her ear, and takes care to brush his lips over her lobe. She gives a very unladylike snort, which she covers with a cough. Fortunately for her Lou comes through the door with the next course—salad _caprese_ , made with homegrown tomatoes and more of the in-house mozzarella, not to mention fresh basil, sea salt, cracked pepper and extra-virgin olive oil that’s green and fragrant. Wilson is right behind him with Kris’s glass and another bottle of wine.

“Sit,” Lou tells him. “Everything else is done, we can relax for a while. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Wilson takes a seat next to Kris and places a wine glass by her plate. “Where’s yours?” she asks.

“I sampled plenty in the kitchen,” he says in that dry way of his. “Having more with dinner isn’t a good idea.”

“Unless you downed an entire bottle by yourself I don’t think there’s a problem,” Kris says with a slight smile. She pushes her glass over to him and gets to her feet. “Be right back.”

“Well, she told _you_ ,” Greg says when she disappears into the kitchen. Wilson says nothing at first. Then,

“It’s my last night here. I’d rather just enjoy dinner and the good company, not get into a snarkfest over the fact that Kris and I are together.”

“Together together, or more like just until you leave,” Greg says. Wilson sighs and rubs his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “We’re taking it one day at a time, okay?”

This unexpected burst of honesty has the effect Wilson undoubtedly hoped for against all hope—it shuts Greg up, for now at least. Kris returns with another glass, plunks it by her plate and takes the bottle. She glances at Wilson, who nods and smiles a little though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Her happiness fades. “What is it?” Her glance sweeps over the rest of the company, focuses on Greg for a moment. It’s not an inimical look, but it does hold a warning. “Someone doesn’t approve? Tough sh—too bad,” she amends, probably because of the kid. Jason sits back with arms folded.

“Stop acting like I haven’t heard the words before,” he snaps. “My ears won’t shrivel up and fall off if someone says ‘shit’, okay?”

Gene chuckles and ruffles Jason’s hair. “Yeah, okay.” He ducks as Sarah aims a knuckle thump at him, but she laughs too.

“We approve,” she tells Kris. “Gene and I are happy for you both.” The genuine warmth in her words makes both Wilson and Kris relax. Wilson darts him a look. Greg turns to face Roz.

“What do you think, honey?” he says in his best lovey-dovey voice. Roz rolls her eyes and looks at Wilson and Kris.

“For what it’s worth, we approve too,” she says. “I’m glad for both of you.” She means it too. Kris beams. After a moment Wilson gives a little nod.

“Thanks,” he says as Lou comes in, glass in hand.

The talk turns more general after that: the weather comes first. It’s actually worth discussion because it’s been so pleasant; everyone is sure that means a bad winter to come. They move on to school, so the kid feels included, and Roz can own up to her tutoring gig and get some strokes; band practice, a topic where everyone kibbitzes about what they’d like to hear the Flatliners play at the Halloween bash; and the food and wine of course, both exceptionally good. Wilson refuses to take credit for anything from the kitchen.

“I’m just here for food prep and moral support,” he says with a smile that is both self-deprecating and honest. “Lou’s the genius behind it all.” A classic Wilson line, but there’s little to none of the usual angst under the words. After a while he gets up and goes into the kitchen, followed by Lou, to return with a huge platter of chicken roasted with lemons, thyme and garlic, accompanied by roasted onions and carrots. Lou has the _risotto_ , enough to feed an army; it’s perfect, velvety smooth and enhanced with parmesan cheese. It’s a hearty main course, hot and delicious on a cool night in early autumn, but with enough of a hint of summer in it to make it less a premonition than a transition.

So they eat and talk and laugh, and the evening winds its slow way into darkness, but no one cares. The last course comes out—baked apples with wine sauce and real whipped cream, handmade chocolates and tiny cups of fresh _espresso_ , and it’s exactly right. They’re all full and comfortable with each other’s company. To Greg’s surprise he is too. It occurs to him that he’s part of this group—at least for tonight, in this little bubble of comraderie they’ve created for themselves. Roz is relaxed against him, her arm around his waist, hand on his hip. She caresses him now and then in an absent fashion that he secretly enjoys. Wilson has Kris’s hand in his; she sits close to him, her head on his shoulder. Jason is huddled between Sarah and Gene, sheltered in the safety of their closeness. He watches everyone else with those big dark eyes of his, takes it all in, says nothing. Only Lou and Chase sit alone. Lou’s good with it; Chase looks lonely, but he’s not upset—maybe he’s got something on the side, but this village is small enough to have it be public knowledge and Greg hasn’t heard anything, nor has Roz. Still, he’s the first one to leave.

“Six a.m. comes early,” he says with a smile, and straightens to face Wilson. “You coming in before you go to say goodbye?”

“Well—sure, if you want,” Wilson says, and looks uncertain. He glances at Greg. “Okay by you?”

“Hey, you already crashed a ddx. Stopping by to steal doughnuts and coffee before you head off to the Left Coast is a measly anticlimax compared to that act of _chutzpah_ ,” Greg says, but he sort of hopes Wilson will do it. He doesn’t want to think about why.

The party breaks up quickly after Chase’s exit. Sarah and Gene are the next to leave; the reason is plain, the kid’s almost asleep on his feet and he’s got school in the morning. It’s not that late—barely nine, but he’s more than ready for bed. “We’ll stop by tomorrow too,” Sarah says. She gives Lou a hug. “You and James outdid yourselves. Please come by for supper.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” Wilson says dryly. Sarah flashes him a grin.

“Yours will stand for whenever you come back,” she says, “and you know it.” She kisses Lou’s cheek and whispers something that makes him chuckle.

“We’ll see,” he says, and shoots Wilson a speculative, though friendly look. Kris does a slow blush that is thoroughly charming.

As they get ready to leave, Greg stops by Jason. “You wanna talk, stop by the office,” he says. Jason pauses as he puts on his jacket. He doesn’t look at Greg as he nods, just heads off to say goodbye to Lou. Sarah glances at him, gives him a questioning lift of her brows. Greg returns it with a defiant stare. He remembers the terms of their agreement and he’ll abide by them, he doesn’t need a reminder. When Roz puts a hand on his shoulder he almost shakes it off.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You driving or you want me to do it?”

The brief ride home is quiet, as is their entry into the house. Hellboy meets them, his purr loud enough to wake the dead. He twines around their legs in the hope of a late second dinner. Roz obliges him while Greg goes into the living room. He doesn’t bother to turn on the tv, just eases onto the couch and leans back, aware that he’s tired but in a pleasant sort of way. He listens to Roz talk to the cat, the sound of the can opener, and around him the soft creaks and pops of the house as it settles into night. When Roz joins him he puts his arm around her, brings her close. She obliges readily, to snuggle in against him.

“Enjoyable evening,” she says after a while.

“I didn’t notice.” She kisses his cheek but doesn’t say anything. “Wilson and his woman . . . they added an interesting level of intrigue to proceedings,” he says finally.

“’His woman’ has a name,” Roz says dryly. “Kris will be good for him.”

“The question is, will he be good for her.” He stretches his legs a bit, feels his right thigh twinge a bit; storm’s on the way. No matter how well the muscle heals, he’ll always know when the weather’s about to change. “Wilson’s track record . . . the word foreboding’ comes to mind.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Roz sighs softly. “Kris is old enough to take care of herself. She’s had some bad experiences, but good ones too. She’s not attracted to losers or needy jerks.”

“That doesn’t explain what the hell she’s doing with him.”

“Wilson’s not a loser and he’s not a needy jerk,” Roz says, her tone thoughtful. “He’s more complicated than that. But she’ll find out for herself, and decide whether she wants to stay with him.”

“Sounds like personal experience talking,” Greg says. Roz chuckles.

“Stop fishing. I’ve never thought of you that way.”

“Huh,” he says, skeptical.

“I thought you were an oblivious jackass.” That startles a laugh out of him. “I was wrong. You’re not oblivious, and you’re usually only a jackass when someone’s been one to you first.”

“My goodness, you’ve given this plenty of thought,” he says, impressed and amused at her acumen.

“Of course I have,” she says, and gets to her feet. She leans in and presses another kiss to his lips. “Meet me in the bedroom,” she says against his mouth, “and don’t be late, _amante_.”

Well, there’s no point to hang around after _that_ invitation. Greg stretches again, rises and stands in the darkened room for a moment. The same sense of belonging he saw with Sarah and Gene and Jason is present here as well, ephemeral as a breath, and yet substantial too. He closes his eyes, lets himself feel it just for a moment, before someone takes it away. Then he turns and makes his way to the bedroom, moves through the soft shadows with something he might just dare to call peace of mind.


	20. author's note

_(This was the author's note I posted when the series ended in May 2012.)_

If you will forgive my self-indulgence, I’m going to depart a bit from standard procedure just this once. The first chapter of the new story will be posted on Thursday. This time around, in honor of the show’s finale which airs tonight, I’d like to write about House MD and how it changed my life.

In 2005 I returned to Pennsylvania from a year spent in a cabin by a lake in the wilds of Kansas. Coming back to the East Coast was both difficult and joyous; I’d just been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome, and felt there wasn’t much hope in the future.

At the cabin we had no live tv, so contrary to what my often-faulty memory has told me, I didn’t start out with House from the very beginning. But I did catch up after my housemate recommended the show. “It has Hugh Laurie in it,” she said as an afterthought. That was enough incentive to get me to watch, as Hugh is not only a fine and talented actor, he’s fairly easy on the eyes as well (I’m sure this isn’t news to most of you).

On Demand is a wonderful thing. I started from the beginning, delighted to see Hugh; I’d loved his work in A Bit of Fry & Laurie, Blackadder and Jeeves & Wooster. How strange but intriguing to see him play a scruffy bad boy genius! And to hear that nearly flawless American accent come out of him so effortlessly! (Now we know it wasn’t so easy, which makes his accomplishment even more amazing.) And Robert Sean Leonard, another favorite from movies such as Dead Poets Society, was a series regular as well. This was inspired casting.

The first episode had me hooked. Each new hour offered a glimpse of one of the most fascinating characters I’d ever seen. Brilliant, lonely outsider antiheroes were nothing new; I’d been involved with other fandoms where such characters thrived (Highlander in particular). But this outsider, Gregory House, was different. Here was someone who wasn’t a crusty doctor with a heart of gold. House was crude, often deliberately cruel, abrasive, caustic . . . but there was a vulnerable humanity in those gorgeous vivid eyes, a wistfulness that caught at me. I enjoyed House’s sense of humor, the childlike way he delighted in toys or games or pranks, his love of beauty and truth revealed in his music and in private moments. Through House’s actions I saw that the pursuit of doing the right thing could be accomplished in ways both effective and unorthodox that were worthy of emulation.

House’s friendship with Wilson was another reason to watch. Here was friendship in all its somewhat dubious glory, good, bad and indifferent. I loved the arguing, the misunderstandings, the casual cruelty, the laughter and jokes, all of it. It felt real without being trivial or dull. House and Wilson mirrored each other in the most amazing way, and I couldn’t get enough.

And the writing! In that first season it sparkled. Subtle, layered, incredibly witty and insightful, and seldom if ever trite or obvious . . . You were never quite sure what would happen next, and it was wonderful.

In the third season I wrote a one-shot crossover fic involving House and another fandom. It was posted to a private list because I hadn’t discovered FF or LJ at that point, but it was still momentous for me even though no one read it, because it was the story that broke a four-year writing drought. After that the floodgates opened.

In the seventh season I decided after Hugh’s album Let Them Talk came out that it was time to get my music back. I was born to play; my mother often joked about how I came out of the womb looking for an instrument. I played violin, viola, folk harp and piano for many years before carpal tunnel and trashed shoulder joints kept me from playing. Now I’m learning mandolin and feel whole for the first time in a very long time.

House gave me back my writing and my music. Through his superb performances and willingness to grow, Hugh gave me back joy and creativity. I will be forever grateful. 

I won’t go into the show’s peak and decline; the fandom will be debating and discussing those details for years to come. I’ll just say this: even as the writing and storyline went downhill, it was impossible to let the show go. There was almost always at least one moment, one line that shone like a gem. And in eight years, Hugh’s acting was almost never anything less than perfection. He made me want to watch even when the storyline had me holding my head and muttering under my breath.

Now we’ve come to the end of this incredible show. I want to say to those fans who feel everything’s over—it’s not. Fandom can continue and grow even after cancellation. Fic plays a large part in keeping a fandom alive. Please keep writing, reading and reviewing. Enjoy your enduring friendships and make new ones. After things settle out we’ll have new fans coming in as the show goes into syndication. They’ll be looking for good stories and discussions. Let’s not disappoint them. Myself, I’m not planning to go anywhere. I love this show and Greg House with all my heart, and look forward to plenty of fic and friendship in the years to come. I’ve got stories in me yet, and I hope other writers do too.

Yeah, everybody dies. But Greg House will live forever. And that’s a good, a very good thing.


End file.
